Wonderwall
by Wingsex and the City
Summary: Jean Grey learns that balancing college and the X-Men isn't as easy as she'd expected. Warren Worthington finds that being a lone hero by night, businessman by day simply isn't cutting it. Will their newfound friendship save them? By Beaubier and Jen1703.
1. Prologue

**TITLE:** Wonderwall  
**AUTHORS:** Jen1703 and Beaubier (collectively known as "Wingsex and the City")  
**FANDOM:** X-Men: Evolution  
**PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE:** Why not, eh? Just drop a line.  
**CATEGORY:** Romance  
**RATINGS/WARNINGS:** Rated PG-13 for adult themes  
  
**SUMMARY:** Jean Grey discovers that balancing her life at Columbia University and her life as an X-Man isn't as easy as she'd thought it would be. Warren Worthington finds that the life of the lone hero by night, businessman by day simply isn't going to cut it. When the two of them meet in NYC, will their newfound friendship save them, or simply cause more complications?  
  
**DISCLAIMER:** They're not ours. We just wish they were. Don't sue us, we have no money.  
  
**NOTES:** This fanfic was spawned during RPing at Homoinferior, where we met each other. Jen was Jean, Beaubier was Warren. The first few meetings described in this fic are taken directly from our RP threads there. The game is now defunct, but we simply had too much fun writing it, and too many more ideas for the kids, to let it go. So we're taking it to fic. Any scene with both Warren and Jean in it has been RPed out, which is why we are writing this from the limited dual-omniscient 3rd person PoV-- to give you both sides of the story. The sections with them apart were obviously not RPed, but created to fill in the gaps and explain the characters more fully, by Jen for Jean and Beaubier for Warren. So if it reads a little differently than you're used to, from the both of us... now you know why. Much love, and hope you enjoy!

_**  
  
Prologue**_

Warren Worthington III didn't get out much.

He had a cycle, really. He'd get used to it, accept it, and decide that it was simply his lot in life to avoid his family, his associates, and his one-time friends. To not have a life at all. He contented himself with his stint as the Avenging Angel, and realize that this was his source of contentment-- the ability to help others with his differences.

And roughly three weeks later, like clockwork, he'd start to forget just what it was he'd been so content with in this "Lone Ranger" act. His life started to look like some kind of 1950's hero flick, about the young hero who can never reveal himself and his identity to the people he loves, and takes to the road and a life of complete detachment, in favor of using his abilities, and the responsibilities that came with them.

He'd never been terribly angst-ridden, as a child. Even after the disaster at school, when his wings had grown in over the course of an amazingly frightening two weeks, he'd still managed to smile most of the time. He'd been the leader of the pack, the boy with all the friends, the one who made people laugh, the best striker on the soccer team. So he still, six years later, managed to find his way back to acceptance with relative alacrity-- he might not be a carefree boy anymore, but he still remembered how to smile. He could find contentment in the fact that by telling his family who he really was, a winged mutant, he would only hurt them. He was saving them by keeping it quiet. Saving everyone who knew him from a horrible media blitz, from having their personal lives torn apart in public forums, from tearing apart their family, their business, their life.

But on days like this, the in-between days, halfway between his up and down...

He mostly just felt numb.

"We're so lucky you agreed to buy the painting, Warren. And let me thank you again for agreeing to loan it to the museum-- having this in our collection will be a crowning achievement...,"

She'd been talking for roughly twenty minutes on the subject of Renoir. Apparently, Lisa Scallen, head curator of the Impressionist galleries at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, had written her thesis on the man. When it came to art history, there was always a fair chance of Warren having read something or other on nearly every artist he was fond of-- he spent most of his days engrossed in business matters, researching Worthington Industries' unwieldy number of investments and ventures, making certain that they were worthwhile, acceptable. He made the same efforts with any charitable institution the family contributed to, both in terms of medical research and charities, and more "frivolous" efforts. Such as the large portion of the Worthington collection that they either gifted, or lent to the Met.

It was one of the few aspects of the Worthington Industries research he actually enjoyed, in the end. He'd come out of it with a well-developed sense of what he liked and why. He could hold an intellectual conversation about Gauguin or Picasso for hours. And enjoy it.

And since this was the extent of his interaction with another human being who wasn't trying to take him for his money or get him to marry their daughter, for the most part, that was rather lucky.

However, he'd honestly not read more than a blurb here and there on Renoir. Mostly because the man didn't interest him in the least. But, not having the heart to crush her enthusiasm for his works, particularly the seminal one presently located in his living room, which they were standing in front of, he couldn't quite bring himself to tell her that he'd procured the thing purely at his mother's insistence.

"What are the odds that this would be put up for auction, or that someone here in New York City would be the one to acquire it?" She was shaking her head, causing stray locks of her painfully straight, dark hair to fall in front of her tortoise-shell glasses. The woman was a walking stereotype. And, he had to admit, rather charming because of it.

But he never could manage to find anyone _too_ charming. God forbid someone hug him. And feel what was hidden under the Armani suit.

"The odds are not worth considering," he smiled down at her, wings twitching in their harness just slightly. He hadn't flown in two days. They were restless. "But it's here, and I've made arrangements for it to go to the museum in a week."

She cocked her head at him, not unlike a cat, and smiled. "Your house is very quiet, Warren. I always thought you'd be a playboy-- big party house, Jacuzzis, the works."

Warren raised an eyebrow, and started to smile genuinely now, imagining himself living à la Hugh Hefner. Not that it was a bad mental image... he probably would've had that life now, if not for... the wings.

But he couldn't find it in him to regret the loss of that particular aspect of his formerly expected future.

Not too much.

"I'm more of a book and theater kind of guy," he replied, quietly. And it was the truth. These days.

Not that he had a choice.

"You're a hell of a catch," she surprised him by saying.

He blinked at her. Was she... hitting on him?

Not that women never hit on him-- it was a fairly regular occurrence. But this was unexpected. She'd been nothing but professional over their association for the past year, since she'd been promoted to head curator, and he'd become an "unofficial" board member at the Met. In fact, he'd always thought her rather stand-offish, but not in a snobbish way. In that scatter-brained academic way.

It didn't bother him, of course. If that was even what she was doing. He'd brought it on himself, inviting her over this evening to see the painting she'd been desperate to get close to in an "uncontrolled" environment. She'd all but invited herself, and he'd seen no problem with it, personally. Her zeal for the piece was charming, after all.

However, Warren Worthington was not in a position to encourage any kind of relationship. Not even with his own family.

His moment's silence, thinking this through, didn't go unnoticed, apparently. "I didn't mean it to sound like that," she smiled, and looked back at the painting. "It's just surprising. I'd expect your house to look like this," she nodded in it's direction. "Beautiful people, bright colors, happiness. Not that it's unhappy here, I quite like your house. It's just not what I'd expected."

A mix of very slight embarrassment and pronounced relief over his assumptions about her intentions washing over him briefly, Warren followed her gaze to the painting, and ran his eyes over the lovely composition once more. When he thought of _Luncheon of the Boating Party_, he always thought of that famous quote from Renoir-- "For me a picture must be an amiable thing, joyous and pretty-- yes, pretty! There are enough troublesome things in life without inventing others."

When he'd first heard that, he'd probably stopped liking Renoir. Art, to him, should reflect the human condition. Something wasn't beautiful unless it rang true with the viewer, after all. Art shouldn't just be pretty-- bathroom wallpaper should be pretty. Art should be beautiful.

But as he found himself admiring the very things she'd pointed out, the beautiful people, the obvious care with which the familiar faces had been rendered by the artist, the delicacy of his composition and colors, the obvious joy he'd felt at these gatherings and in the presence of his friends...

It suddenly seemed quite beautiful. "Things were like that for me once," He admitted, aloud, for some inconceivable reason.

"What happened?" she asked, as if it were nothing. Pure academic interest.

He thought about it. Wings. Hatred. Family. Love. Protectiveness. Heroism. Apocalypse.

And the only answer he could find was, "I grew up."

**X X X X X**

Jean Grey was flustered. 

It wasn't something that happened very often, which made it all the more frustrating to her.

She had just finished an early morning training session in the Danger Room. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing new, just the same old typical simulation, the kind of thing she'd breezed through dozens of times with hardly a second thought. But this morning she'd been... _sloppy_, as Scott had pointed out.

Repeatedly.

Jean tried not to take the criticism personally, especially since she knew he was right, but it had still bothered her. So had the whispered speculations of "trouble in paradise" and the like from her teammates.

Mainly, though, she was annoyed by herself. Her inability to hold it together for their session was just _not_ normal for her. It wasn't the way she worked. Jean Grey was calm, cool and collected, dependable and reliable. She was the one the professor held up as an example, a role model for the other students (no matter how much Jean hated it).

And she'd messed up on a simple simulation.

Jean trudged upstairs to her room, bypassing the locker rooms to have a shower in the comfort of her en suite bathroom. She kept mentally beating herself up, replaying the simulation in her head, thinking about what she should have done differently and when.

Slipping into her room, Jean went straight to the bathroom, pointedly avoiding looking at the desk piled high with work. She stripped off her uniform, turned on the shower, and stepped into the bathtub. As the warm water washed over her, she closed her eyes with a sigh.

Only a month into her first year at Columbia University, Jean was loving her college experience. The courses she was taking were challenging and fascinating. She was doing exceptionally well in all her classes, already impressing her professors with her curiosity, insight, dedication, and intelligence. On her tests and assignments so far, she had yet to receive a grade lower than an A.

The fact that Jean was a known mutant seemed to be, for the most part, a non issue. There were a few whispers and sideways glances from her classmates during the first week or so, but they faded quickly and Jean felt accepted. She was making friends, had found a group of students with whom she shared many classes, and with whom she got along quite well. The friendships were not particularly close ones, though, and Jean suspected this was primarily due to the fact that she didn't spend much time just hanging out after class. Most of her friends lived in the dorms or in apartments close to campus, so they had active social lives together during the evenings and on weekends. Jean, however, was living at the Institute and commuting to New York City every day in an attempt to balance school with her training as an X-man. And just to complicate things further, Jean was taking a heavier course load so that she could complete he undergrad degree in three years rather than four.

But Jean refused to make a choice between school and being an X-Man. She was determined to do both, and do them both _well_.

For the past week or so, though, she'd been toying with the idea of asking the Professor for a modified training schedule during the week. Most days, Jean was up at 5:00 for training, then was out the door by 7:30 for the 90-minute rush-hour drive from Bayville to the city. In order to accommodate her X-men training, she had been very careful to select classes that didn't start before 9:30 every morning. As such, she had several classes that ran late into the afternoon, even one that didn't end until early evening. So she was getting home anywhere between 6:30 and 9:00. She would grab a quick bite to eat (often smiling an apology at her friends and taking her plate up to her room), then spend as much time as she could on school work before finally falling into bed sometime around midnight. Other than in training sessions, she rarely saw any of her teammates. Including Scott.

Scott, for his part, had become even more dedicated to the X-Men, more determined to step-up their training, in light of the Apocalypse encounter. He was going to the small local university less than a 20 minute drive away, working towards a degree in education so that upon graduation he could teach at the Institute full time. Jean was confident he'd make a wonderful teacher. She smiled at the thought; she was very proud of him.

But with their busy schedules, Jean and Scott had been finding it increasingly difficult to spend time with each other. She missed him. Scott had always been her best friend, and they'd always spent a lot of time together, even before they started dating. Once they'd agreed, some months ago, to shift their relationship toward the romantic, they'd become inseparable. But since late August, when classes had started for them at their respective universities, their time together had been scarce.

Jean's brow furrowed as she lathered her hair, washing away the sweat and grime from the training session. Maybe they should make a point of setting aside some time to spend together this weekend. Even if it was just going out for dinner and a movie. They hadn't done anything like that in weeks, and god knew they deserved the break.

Finishing her shower, she exited the steamy room wrapped only in a large towel to find the man she'd just been thinking about sitting on her bed. Scott was still in full uniform, obviously having come to see her straight from the Danger Room.

"Hi," Jean smiled, pleasantly surprised to see him. "Give me a second, ok?" At his nod, she picked up her robe and stepped back into the bathroom, emerging seconds later. She crossed the room and sat down on the bed, facing him. Letting her eyes scan his face, she smiled.

"Are you ok, Jean?" he asked carefully, his expression one of concern.

Of course. The session. Jean sighed inwardly, and offered him a half-smile. "I'm fine," she assured him. "Just having an off day."

She could see him watching her from behind his visor, twin pinpoints of faint red light. He was weighing her answer, she knew. "You were –"

"Sloppy," she interjected without malice, finishing the thought for him. "Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, it won't happen again."

He was silent for moment, still just watching her. Worrying about her, she knew. "You look tired," he finally said, gently.

Jean nodded reluctantly. "I am, a little."

Scott smiled sadly at her. "You're pushing yourself too hard, aren't you." He didn't make it a question.

"No, I'm not," Jean protested, taking his gloved hand in hers. She wouldn't admit, not even to herself, that he might be right. "It's just taking some adjusting, still trying to get into a routine. I'll be fine, I promise."

"I'm worried about you," Scott admitted quietly, squeezing the hand she'd wrapped around his own.

"Don't be. I'm fine, really," she told him, trying to reassure him. Jean thought back to her musings in the shower. _Try to make time._ "Hey, do you want to go out this weekend? There are a couple of movies playing that I'd like to see. It would be nice for us to get away for a bit."

"I don't know, Jean. I have to meet with my study group, do some other homework, not to mention going over some things with the Professor and working with Logan on some ideas I have for the team..." he shook his head and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry. Rain check?"

Jean smiled her understanding. "Sure, Scott. Rain check."

With a nod, Scott rose from the bed and just looked down at her for a moment. Finally be leaned over and kissed her gently on the forehead. "Alright. See you later, then. And take care of yourself, ok?"

"You too," she replied, still smiling, as she watched Scott cross the room and exit into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. Jean's smile disappeared and she stared at the door for a long time before finally getting to her feet to finish getting ready for the day.

And she tried very hard to squelch the empty feeling in her stomach. Because the truth was, she was relieved he'd said "no".

* * *


	2. Chapter 1

_**Chapter 1**_

The Metropolitan Museum of Art was one of Jean's favorite places to be. For years now, Jean would make the pilgrimage, alone, from Bayville to Manhattan at least once a month so she could nourish her inner artist on the feast available at the Museum. Sometimes she would visit with her sketch book and spend hours studying the sculptures of the masters, reproducing them in shades of grey in hopes of learning from them. Other days, like today, she came simply as an observer, to view the works with an appreciate eye rather than the critical observations of a one-time art student.

Jean tended to devote different visits to different areas of the Museum, since she could easily lose herself in the massive collection for days if she were to try to spend enough time with each collection. Paintings were calling to her this time, and she found herself working her way systematically through the European Collection.

Monet had always been one of her favorites, from the time Jean was first introduced to art as a small child. Something about the colors drew her in, drowning her in their beauty. Luckily, the Met had a wonderful collection of Monet's work, and she could gaze at those paintings for hours. Finally moving away on, she strolled through the gallery, admiring the works of French artists such as Renoir, Degas, Manet, Cezanne... all so magnificent.

On this particular day, Jean was feeling mildly guilty spending the day in such a frivolous activity. Back at the Institute, stacks of text books sat on her desk that needed to be read. Papers needed to be written. Training needed to be caught up on. Really, there were countless reasons why she _shouldn't _be there. Instead she'd decided to give herself a much needed break.

As Jean turned to examine the Gauguin collection, she caught sight of a familiar figure standing transfixed by a particular painting. Warren Worthington III. It had been some months since she'd last seen him, since the Apocalypse fall-out, as a matter of fact. Loath to disturb anyone while they were appreciating art, Jean hesitated a moment. She didn't know Warren well at all. In fact, the only time they'd ever really spoken was when they went in pursuit of the Spider Stone. And even then, they'd exchanged few words during the mission. But he'd always seemed like a nice man, and he was a friend to the X-men. So, with a deep, steadying breath she found herself walking toward him.

_He'll remember me, I hope,_ Jean thought to herself, chewing her lower lip nervously.

As she approached she noticed the painting that had him so entranced. _La Orana Maria. _Not one of her favorites, Jean had to admit, but a lovely piece regardless. She stopped beside him, and saw his body tense as he realized he was no longer alone. Smiling warmly, Jean spoke softly, not wanting to startle him further, "Hello, Warren."

He visibly relaxed and smiled, a completely natural, lovely smile. It even crinkled his eyes.

"Jean," his eyes found hers, but not with the aggression of a businessman in a meeting. Still smiling, gently, he turned toward her just a little. "Hello. What brings you into the city today? Or, for that matter, to the post-impressionists?"

Her smile broadened when he spoke her name, pleased that he did, in fact, remember her, and all apprehension over making a fool of herself was forgotten. "Oh, this is like my home away from home," she admitted almost sheepishly. "Well, not necessarily the post-impressionists, but the Met itself. I've been in love with this place for as long as I can remember."

Jean let her gaze wander to the painting Warren had been admiring, noting the plaque beside it: Gift of the Worthington Family, 1983. "It's wonderful that your family contributes to the Museum's collection. Art deserves to be seen, not hidden away in a private collection," she continued.

Jean regarded the painting carefully for a few moments, examining it as if for the first time. "It's an interesting piece. Gauguin isn't one of my favorites, but I can certainly appreciate the beauty of his works."

He simply looked at her for a moment, considering her closely. His lack of response had Jean turning towards him slightly, self-consciously, wracking her brain for something to say since he apparently wasn't feeling overly talkative. But what could she talk about that wouldn't make her seem like a silly child compared to the sophisticated man beside her? She settled for something she deemed safe.

"How have you been?" Lowering her voice just slightly, she continued. "It's been some time since the Apocalypse incident, and we haven't seen you. I hope you know you're welcome at the Institute anytime. You have friends there."

He coughed slightly, and then looked back to her, and Jean felt the urge to kick herself. Wonderful, she was saying all the wrong things, obviously. But then, "Thank you. I... I talked to Scott a little the other day. I've been feeling a little cooped up lately, I guess. And Board meetings don't exactly give me any release."

Though he obviously tried very hard to conceal it, Jean couldn't miss the somewhat wistful look that crept over Warren's handsome face. Her heart went out to him, sensing in him a lost soul who desperately needed acceptance, understanding... and freedom from the conventions of the social circles in which he obviously ran. She was also surprised to hear that he had kept in touch with Scott, and made a mental note to ask her boyfriend about it when she got home.

"But yes, I can understand that Gauguin wouldn't be your favorite, he's a bit... raw, maybe. Is there something you're in this wing to visit, then?"

The sudden change in subject hit Jean almost like a slap. She blinked rapidly in surprise, and tried to compose herself, fighting against anger and hurt. The good manners instilled in her by her parents warred with her temper. She didn't like being brushed off, and she didn't like being strong-armed. _So that's how it's going to be, is it Mr. Worthington? Fine,_ she snapped at him silently, her temper finally winning.

"I was actually just wrapping up my visit for the day," Jean told him, her tone slightly clipped. "I know how busy you must be. I'm sorry, I won't take up any more of your time. It was nice seeing you again, Warren."

As she turned to leave, a hand reached out and gently grasped her arm. Surprised, she looked back at him, wondering why he was trying to stop her when he obviously had no interest in talking to her.

"Wait. I'm... don't cut your visit short because I'm a paranoid recluse." He smiled again, slightly crookedly. "I'm hopeless with polite society these days. Used to staring over a table at someone who's trying to take me for all I'm worth," he shook his head at himself, and kept smiling, if only slightly, his voice low and sincere. "If you want to stay... I'll try and remember that you're not a Board member. I'm sorry, Jean."

Watching Warren carefully, Jean weighed his words. His expression was earnest. He meant it, Jean was sure. He did seem terribly... unsure of himself, falling back on distant politeness not unlike the tone of conversations she used to endure at her parents' dinner parties. She cocked her head to the side and considered him. Handsome, rich, a powerful businessman... no wonder he had to be wary of people's intentions. He was likely pursued constantly by gold diggers, had business acquaintances trying to take advantage of him... yes, it made sense.

If she was going to get to know Warren Worthington III – and at that moment Jean decided she would force him to accept her as a friend if it was the last thing she did – she was going to have to ease him out of his comfort zone of impersonal formality, and teach him to trust people. Starting with her.Smiling brightly to let him know there were no hard feelings, Jean nodded her head once. "All right, I'll stay."

"Good," he smiled at her and let his hand drop from her arm, "my afternoon would've been completely ruined if I thought I'd chased you off with my questionable business sense."

Jean laughed softly at Warren's attempt at levity. He really did seem relieved that she'd decided to stay, and that made her smile. As he turned to her he locked eyes with Jean, and there was something about the way he looked at her... suddenly a lone butterfly started dancing in her stomach. _Don't you dare,_ she growled at herself, mentally squashing the fluttering creature.

"Maybe, since you know the place, you could show me which paintings actually appeal to you? Since Gauguin isn't quite to your taste? And... about the Institute," he hesitated slightly, but then continued, "I... I'd like to know what's been going on since Apocalypse. I've just been... thinking a lot since then, I guess. Things are different now. For the world, for us, for me. I'm not really sure I've managed to wrap my head around the whole thing yet. I guess that's why I'm not sure how to talk about it."

Without thinking about it, Jean reached out and squeezed Warren's hand reassuringly. "It's been hard for all of us," she confided, smiling sadly. "The world, our lives... nothing will ever be the same as it was... before..." She trailed off, then shook her head just slightly to chase away unpleasant memories.

Smiling warmly again, Jean suggested, "Come on, let's go look at the Monet collection." Surprised to realize she still held Warren's hand, she gave him a gentle tug in the direction she wanted to go, and they started walking.

Jean pulled Warren through the gallery, not letting him go until they reached the Impressionist galleries. She babbled randomly about this and that, and Warren listened, seemingly intently. Which made her feel better about everything.

"Things at the Institute haven't changed all that much," Jean admitted as they strolled through the gallery. "The X-Men and the Brotherhood seem to have declared a truce for the time being. Most of the students who had left after our initial 'outing' have come back, which is wonderful. Scott and I are now junior faculty and have taken over some training duties, which is quite an adjustment for all of us." She chuckled, remembering their disastrous first teaching attempts.

Glancing at him, she said, "There's always room for another friend, Warren. I won't push the issue, just please keep that in mind, ok?"

"I do think about it," he admitted, much to Jean's surprise, "and often. At first, I didn't really understand the difference between the goals Magneto had, and the goals of Professor Xavier. Same old business sense, I guess..." And there, he had to laugh at himself. "Paranoid recluse, again. But after the Spider Stone... well, you were there. And you know that I have the same goals you have there, at the Institute. It's something... It's something amazing, anyhow. Thank you, I appreciate it. I'm obviously... in need of somewhere. Something."

Jean's heart broke a little at how... alone he sounded, and she suddenly wondered how much of her life she'd taken for granted. After she awoke from the coma induced by her telepathy exploding, Jean had found refuge at the Institute, where she was accepted and loved for who and what she was. And because her mutation didn't manifest itself in a physical manner, she'd never needed to hide. Having watched so many of her friends struggle with their own mutations – particularly Scott, who desired nothing so much as to be able to be able to control his optic blasts – Jean knew she'd been one of the lucky ones. But her friends had all found a place of unconditional acceptance with Xavier, and that had made all the difference in the world for some of them. Kurt, for example, who couldn't be seen in public before acquiring his image inducer, and Scott, who would still be blind today had it not been for the ruby quartz glasses.

Warren had never had anywhere to go that would offer him that same level of acceptance, that permission to be himself, to enjoy his abilities and be proud of his differences. Dammit, he deserved to have a safe haven as much as anyone else. She was glad to hear he was at least considering the Institute as a potential retreat. Jean hurt for him, and wanted so very much to be able to make everything better.

"But I'm glad to hear that the Brotherhood and the X-Men are getting along. Magneto's daughter was on my team, when we fought Apocalypse... she was... interesting. Very... focused."

But they had arrived at the Monets, by this time. Jean felt his hand on her back, suddenly, guiding her gently, and it felt... right. It felt nice, and she had to fight the urge to arch into his touch like a cat asking to be petted.

_Knock it off,_ she ordered herself.

"Do you like the Water Lilies series? I like to sit in front of that one sometimes."

The question snapped Jean out of her reverie, and she found herself looking up at Warren and smiling again. "I love the Water Lilies. I can get lost staring at these paintings. According to my parents, I've been drawn to Monet since I was old enough to look through their art books – around 2 years old, I think. I would climb into my father's armchair and just... stare at the pictures of Monet's paintings for hours." Jean laughed a little self-consciously and shook her head. "I was a strange little girl. I guess some things never change," Jean admitted with a grin.

Warren simply ginned back, and guided her toward the large canvas that hung near to them. He stopped just behind the bench in front of the pastel canvas. "Well, I suppose we were all strange as kids. And some of us just never really got over it-- you and me, for example."

Jean chuckled and nodded in agreement, and tried not to stare at him as he smiled. This smile was different than the others. It was wide and completely unselfconscious, and it transformed Warren's entire face. Jean was momentarily taken aback by how truly handsome he was when he smiled like that, and wondered how many girls had lost their hearts as a result.

"I guess I never would've been into art at all, if not for the... mutation."

Jean didn't miss his hesitation, and she understood it. Once upon a time, she had felt the same way, hesitated ever time she had to say the "M" word. It was only through her time with Xavier that she grew not only comfortable with the term, but proud of being able to claim it for herself and her friends.

Warren pressed on. "I was an athletic kid, more than anything else. Big soccer player. But spending six years pretty much confined to the house, and needing something to entertain me, I guess you could say I've made it my hobby to find out about those 'finer things' my mother was always pressing."

Warren left her side and moved as close as possible to the painting without setting off the alarm. The loss of Warren's hand on the small of her back left her feeling cold. She'd liked how it had felt there, like it fit somehow. Scott never made gestures like that... not anymore, anyway. And she couldn't remember if he ever had. Then she mentally scolded herself for making the comparison.

Jean watched, head cocked slightly to one side, as Warren approached the painting. _How on Earth is he able to hide his wings so well,_ she wondered silently, taking in the slim line of his suit, the way it fit his frame _just_ so.

Warren moved as close as possible to the painting without setting off the alarm. The entire canvas was unevenly covered in oil paint, gigantic and overwhelming and undeniably... impressionist. He held out a hand to her, once he'd reached his position, and smiled at her, where she stood watching him. "Here, let me show you what it is I like about this one."

She came to his side and stood close, to try to get as close to his perspective on the painting as possible. He pointed with the hand he'd gestured to her with, at one small section of the painting he was almost touching his nose to-- a particularly rough section. The surface was heavy there, with layered yellow and light red, over the pastel purple and green base that was to be the pond and one of the lilies. The yellow and red were thick, and the green and purple beneath light and smooth.

"I like this spot. This four square inches of this painting amazes me. I know Impressionism isn't meant to be looked at like this-- it's about stepping back and taking in the whole view, right? This is just one little piece of what he used to create that impression. But the color, right here, how thick this paint is... it says everything about his method, and it's... beautiful, really."

Jean listened attentively as Warren explained to her what appealed most to him about the painting. It wasn't something she'd ever considered before, the process behind the painting, and she suddenly felt very superficial. He was right, it was fascinating when you looked at it from this perspective, close enough to see every detail of the tiny parts that made up the magnificent whole.

When he paused and turned to her again, she noticed that Warren's eyes were the same shade of blue as the paint used in other parts of the painting. Jean had to force herself not to stare.

His smile turned slightly apologetic, once he'd said it, and he looked back to her, meeting her eyes once again. "I like Jackson Pollock, Franz Hals. Artists who let you see their motion, their brushwork, their method. And then you step back, and it's this... this picture. Built from tiny things like a mess of oil paint or a few lines on a canvas... ok now, I'm really going off." He laughed quietly at himself. But he laughed, gently again, and offered a joking, "I don't suppose that's what drew you to the Monet book at the age of two?"

Jean burst out laughing at the thought. "No, not exactly." She sobered somewhat, but kept smiling broadly. "To be honest, I've never examined any painting that closely. You're right, it's beautiful. I appreciate paintings, I have a deep love of them, but if I really want to concentrate on the practical theory behind a work, I study sculptures." She blushed slightly and looked away from him, pretending to examine the Monet again to hide her embarrassment. "I used to think I wanted to be an artist – a sculptor, actually," she admitted. "Then I realized that was... not the most realistic career goal, and I grew to love sculpting as a hobby more than anything. I still love it, though I haven't created anything in a while."

Why she'd felt the need to confess that to a man she barely knew, Jean wasn't sure, but she was confident Warren would be able to understand. Jean was beginning to believe she had discovered a dear and true friend in the Angel.

She turned back to him and met his eyes. "So, Mr. Worthington, shall we continue our tour of the Met?"

In the past six years of his life combined, Warren hadn't smiled as much as he had in the past two hours. He was sure of it. No exaggeration.

It was truly amazing just how much his perception of Jean had change over that time. When she'd first approached him, he'd known her only by the most basic definitions: Jean Grey. X-Man. Telepath. Telekinetic. Scott's girlfriend. Beautiful girl.

He'd known she was probably more than any combination of those things, but he really hadn't known her very well at all. He'd barely seen her during the Apocalypse fallout, she'd been on a different team, and the whole issue with the Spider Stone felt like years ago, since all that had happened.

Her presence had been unexpected, obviously. But the conversation was even more so. The more he got to know her, the more he liked her, and the more he wondered why they'd never talked that much.

And to find her there, of all places. One of the few spots in the city he could force himself to appear in public at, one of the few places that could make him feel at ease. He hadn't been exactly surprised to hear a similar sentiment from Jean. Just that... he wasn't used to talking to anyone at all, really, in a context outside of business. And to hear her say something that... that really, he could've said himself... was nice. Normal conversation. Not analysis.

And now, they sat in the cafe at the Met, him with his usual mocha-with-an-extra-shot cradled in both hands, as he smiled at her over it. Funny, how he'd been planning to go home right after looking at the Gauguin... and now he thought he could spend all day at the Met, really. Or anywhere. Assuming that lovely, disarming, god-what-a-beautiful-laugh Jean Grey was there.

He sat forward in his seat-- he usually did in chairs like this one-- they tended to make it all-too-obvious that there was something not-quite-right about his back-- but he was genuinely feeling... relaxed. Maybe it was the familiarity of the museum. Maybe it was her smiling at the Rodin. Maybe it was talking to her outside of all that... X-Men insanity. Not that he didn't like what they did, he had the utmost respect for Xavier and his aims... but she was just so... _real_ here. So. Very. Real. He was drinking it up like he'd never hear it again, parched for it. And god, he hoped he'd hear it again...

But now was not the time for that. She was here, now, looking at him. Shining red hair falling over her shoulders, black eyelashes heavy over those brilliant eyes... not that it meant anything, her being here. A man and a woman could have a nice time together, could enjoy each others' company, in a purely platonic way. Particularly when one of them was already obviously head over heels for someone else, as Jean was for Scott. Who was obviously the luckiest man on the planet, for a lot of reasons... but mostly for that one.

He cleared his throat, suddenly, realizing that he was staring. Which was ok, since she was taking a sip of her own coffee. But... think fast. "So you like the Rodin room? What kind of things are you interested in sculpting, yourself? I've never really been very artistic but... obviously, I'm amazed by anyone who is."

_Amazed by a lot of things about you. But that seems like the safest one to talk about. No picking up on Scott's girlfriend... not that you could..._

Jean smiled softly. "Oh, I don't think my interest in sculpting is worthy of anyone's amazement," she admitted. "As I said, it's just a hobby that I love. But I think I like sculpting people best. I find faces fascinating. The last project I finished was a bust of the Professor, and that was, oh, at least a year or more ago." Jean took another sip of her coffee. "I haven't had an awful lot of spare time to devote to art. I got heavily involved in sports at school – soccer, actually, like you – and that took up a lot of my time. The training schedule at the Institute was stepped up, so most of our free time was taken up by homework and studying. And between college and taking on more training responsibilities at home, I don't have time for sculpting now. Besides, I need somewhere I can completely escape in order to really want to sculpt, and I never seem to be able to find that anymore. I just can't seem to find the inspiration."

Warren shook his head, and leaned forward just a little further, leaning with his forearms on the table. An unconscious act to get a little closer to her. He sipped at his mocha as he listened to her, smiling behind his styrofoam cup. Soccer girl, was she? That might explain her legs, which, now that he thought about it, were really very impressive in her uniform.

"I'm sorry," she told him, smiling a little self-consciously. "I tend to ramble sometimes, you'll get used to it."

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. She had absolutely no idea... "Don't worry about that with me. It's nice... listening to someone like you talk. Someone with your kind of intelligence... perception..." His words were failing him now, as he tried to find the right word... a word that explained why she could talk all day and he wouldn't mind... but didn't sound like he was trying to feed her a bad pickup line. Because he wasn't. He was just a little... self-conscious. It had been a long time, after all.

Jean blushed just slightly, and smiled softly as she took another sip of her coffee.

"Anyhow, I'm sure you'll find your inspiration again. I don't know that I've ever had any myself. Except maybe when I'm flying. But as soon as my feet hit the ground..." _Whoa there! Why would you tell her that kind of... that sounds corny and pathetic and... god..._ Warren felt his ears getting warm again, and he took a drink, quickly, thensmiled at her again. "So people are the inspiration are they? I'd like to see what you've done, sometime. I'm a huge fan of portraits."

She grinned and shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't generally show my work to anyone. Really. It's sweet of you to ask, but..." She just shook her head again and laughed. "And yes, you can say it. I'm one of _those_ artists, I know."

Warren laughed at that, quiet but real. And it felt good, just like it had the million other times he'd laughed with her today. Every time, it was like more weight slipped off his shoulders, like more tension was released from inside of him. One less iron band wrapped around his stomach. A little less pressure in his head.

Jean took another long sip of her coffee. "What about you, Warren? Other than art appreciation and board meetings," she said, wrinkling her nose playfully, "what do you like to do with your time?"

God... that was cute. The way she wrinkled up her nose when she'd mentioned the board meetings. Amazing. She was beautiful, in the most elegant way... but expressive enough to appear fantastically cute at the same time.

Oh. Question. _Good god, answer the question!_

"I... well…" He thought for a moment, about what an average day in the life of Warren Worthington was like, and smiled. "I guess I spend a lot of time reading. Which is why I know anything about art at all, to be honest. Clearly, I've had no training. I like music, some modern things. I like the theatre, thanks to my mother. She still buys season tickets for us at the New Amsterdam..."

Hell. _That_ was what he was supposed to be doing tonight. _Les Misérables_. He hadn't seen it in years, and he'd been too young to really "get it," he figured. His mother had taken him, before his interest in the theatre was really very developed... 

Maybe Jean would...?

Right, no. That definitely sounded like a date. No way. She'd turn him down in a heartbeat. Hell, she probably didn't even _like_ the theater...

"What about you, anyhow? We've been talking about art all day, and I hardly know anything else about you. What do you like?"

Jean laughed at how quickly he turned the question back on her. "For starters, I'll agree with everything you just listed. I like music, everything from classical to rock. I love the theater. Reading is one of my favorite pastimes – the library at the Institute is my favorite room. The Professor's collection is simply amazing." Jean smiled, remembering some of the days she'd spent hidden away in the cavernous room. "I like traveling. I write poetry - and before you ask nobody _ever_ sees my poetry," she warned, waving a threatening finger at him playfully.

He laughed at that, and held up his hands in surrender, making a mental note to _definitely_ try and get her to show him that. He was an art-lover, not an artist. A reader, not a writer. And people who were... just...

Yeah. Wow. This girl was something. Inspired and inspiration all in one.

"And then there are my more... academic hobbies. I'm a terrible science geek," she admitting, grinning guiltily. "I love astronomy, and I'm fascinated by biology and genetics. I'm actually working toward medical school."

Warren raised his eyebrows, impressed, and took another sip of his coffee. Well, that certainly made his hobbies seem... superficial. Med school... yes, he could see it. Most definitely. And what were his goals...?

_Why, I run my father's billion dollar corporation that I did absolutely nothing to earn, actually._

Christ. Maybe he should think about college.

Or about asking her to go with him tonight after all... She _had _said that she liked the theater, after all.

Jean paused for a moment and watched Warren in amusement. "Well, now I think you know more about me than half of my friends at the Institute do," Jean told him with a slightly self-deprecating smile, "and you're not yawning or running away. I think that's a good sign."

He shook his head, laughing at the very idea. "No, Jean, not at all. You're fascinating. Astronomy... I used to want to be an astronaut when I was a kid. I guess we all kinda did though, right?"

Well... if he was going to do it... he really should do it. He didn't want this to end, not so soon, and...

The hell with it.

"But, if you like theater... I have tickets to _Les Misérables_ tonight, actually. I don't know if you're busy or not, but since my parents moved to London, there's always an extra seat in the box. Would you like to...," _Breathe, oh god, keep breathing_, "Come with me? Might give us a chance to talk more. About... astronomy. Or... anything you want. I'd like to hear more."

_Please don't let me sound as desperate as... I feel._

Heart. In. His. Throat.

God. Why had he done that...?

Agonizing seconds crept by, slipped through his fingers slowly. And he watched her watching him, waited with his heart pounding in his throat, to hear what she would say.

He should have made it clear that he didn't mean it as a date. Why hadn't he _said_ that? God, what if she thought he--

"I would love to go with you," Jean replied, beaming at him. "Thank you."

Oh god. God. Now he could breathe. His heart was still in his throat, for some reason... which he was not terribly excited about. But god... it wasn't over. And she was practically glowing, that much was obvious, she hadn't taken it the "wrong" way at all! 

Warren honestly felt, for a moment, that his grin would split his face. And all he could think was, "Thank god... thank god..."

Jean paused, then glanced down at her clothes. "Do I have time to go back home to change? I'm not exactly dressed for an evening out."

Glad for the excuse to let his gaze drop below her eyes (not that they weren't lovely, because _god_ they really were), he noticed her outfit. To be honest, she looked fantastic. And it wasn't as if anyone would question them. As much as it irritated him at times to be recognizable, he knew damn well anyone with him could wear pretty much whatever she wanted...

But hell. Her positive answer and beaming face had lifted his spirits so quickly... why not make a day of it? And anyhow, if it would make her feel better to dress up... he could do that. Particularly if it meant he got to see her smile like that, just a little longer.

"Well, we _could_ go all the way back to Bayville. Or we could just go shopping in town. Maybe even have dinner. Just for fun." He spread his fingers wide on the table, as if it would somehow prove to her that he had no intentions, other than the ones he was expressing outright. "You came to the city to relax, have a little break. Why not do it right, have a little adventure? And keep me company while you're at it?"

And he just sat, smiling at her. Hoping to god that he wasn't pushing his luck with this offer. But something about the glint in her green eyes now... he had a feeling she was up for adventure.

Considering his suggestion, Jean watched him. "I think that sounds like fun," Jean confirmed, grinning again. "I'm always up for an adventure, and it's always more fun if you can share it with a friend."

Her smile. So. Bright.

Thank god. It wasn't over yet.

This was going to be _fun_. Even if it meant standing in one hundred stores waiting for her to pick what to wear-- at least he'd get to see her in every one of them.

And she'd never be his, he knew that much. But he didn't need that, not right then. He was just glad she'd said yes. Glad she wanted to stick around a little longer. And he didn't care why she had this affect, and Lisa Scallen, curator of Impressionist art at the Met, didn't.

"My car's outside," Warren told her, grin still firmly in place, but keeping his voice low. He wanted her to see he was happy, but he didn't want to sound like some teenage girl who wanted to go to the mall... "You point me in the right direction, and we can go anywhere you like. I'll call about dinner on the way out too. How do you feel about Italian? Or... French? No, Indian?"

He was practically laughing by that point. But it didn't matter. Because Christ, he was having fun today. And it wasn't over yet.


	3. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

The ride over to the boutique had been fun. Warren's car – a slick silver Audi TT – was a great ride, and he handled it beautifully, zipping in and out of the crazy mid-town traffic. It actually reminded Jean very much of how Scott drove his beloved sports car. They arrived at their destination in no time.

"I promise I won't take too long," Jean assured Warren as they walked through the door of one of her favorite little Manhattan boutiques. Smiling at the sales associate behind the counter, Jean made a bee-line for the back of the shop.

Jean quickly selected two potential dresses before turning back to Warren. "I'm going to try these. I'd like your opinion on them, so don't go very far, ok?" she flashed him a smile before ducking into a change room.

Warren leaned casually forward over the jewelry counter as he waited for Jean to emerge with the first of her selections. Honestly, he couldn't imagine how the night would get much better. And it hadn't even begun. Jean Grey was presently inside, changing into a beautiful dress, which she was going to come out and model for him.

God. Whatever he'd done to deserve this luck... he only hoped he could do it again and again. He hadn't had this much company in years, and certainly none like... hers. She hadn't complained about his driving (which had convinced his mother long ago that he should have a driver at all times, which he, incidentally, hated), and she hadn't complained about his music, which at the moment was the latest from Ocean Colour Scene. And though they had yet to experience a lull in the conversation... he had a feeling that even if they did, it wouldn't be so terrible. In fact, it might even be... good.

He'd have to wait and see, of course. But it certainly seemed possible.

That one was nice-- the platinum chain with the diamond and emerald rose charm. Matching earrings... his mother loved getting jewelry for her birthdays and such. He'd never really seen the appeal, but he wondered, offhand, if Jean liked these kinds of things. Not that he'd buy her one right now – he wasn't stupid, after all, but that emerald was almost exactly the same color as her eyes...

He heard the door to the dressing room opening, and turned to face it, with an unconscious, brilliant smile on his face.

And found that her eyes were, in fact, _exactly_ the same color as the stone he'd been admiring.

Uncanny, that.

"Number one," she announced, pausing before turning around so he could get the full effect. "What do you think?"

Oh. Right. Dress. He couldn't stop smiling at her, ran his eyes over her, happy once again for the excuse to do so. The cream-colored floral dress hugged every curve of her lithe form, accenting the fullnesses and flatnesses of her perfectly. And the back view was no less lovely than the front. Unh... in fact, she was nothing short of amazing in it. She looked almost like a young princess or a...

_Right, now, none of that flight of fancy bullshit. The lady asked for your opinion. And..._

"You look beautiful, Jean. It's almost like it was made for you," he said, quite honestly. It suited her sweet, open nature, really. Sure, she had a temper on her, but this seemed to bring out her caring side – the side that had probably made her pity him enough to actually spend the entire evening with him. "The sleeves are lovely as well, it looks...," _amazing against your god-that-looks-soft ivory skin..._ Hrm, ok no. That was a bit much. He chuckled at himself and his difficulties with expression, not to mention his surprisingly teenage and extremely hormonal reaction to this amazing girl, and shook his head. "I'm speechless. In the best possible way. How does that answer the question?"

Jean tried to use her hair to hide her flaming face, a trick she'd learned very young to help deal with one of the curses of being so fair-skinned. "Thank you," she said quietly, turning to look in the mirror behind her. Under the guise of studying her reflection, Jean watched Warren watch her. She was flattered by the obvious approval on his face, as his eyes continued to roam from her head to her feet. Taking a deep breath, she met his eyes in the mirror. "There's one more I'd like to try on," she told him, then slipped once again into the dressing room.

Warren leaned a little more heavily on the jewelry counter when she was gone. She looked beautiful no matter what, of course. Her museum-wear was certainly flattering... hell, a burlap sack would be flattering. But good god...

He tried to busy himself with the jewelry again, absentmindedly picking out things his mother would like, wondering if Jean would like any of it, coming back to that emerald pendant that was the exact. Same. Color. As her eyes.

God. God that dress. _Her_ in that dress. He really shouldn't be enjoying another man's girlfriend so much... in that dress. But it was pretty difficult considering how she looked... in that dress. God.

He heard the door creaking once again, and turned to face her, surprised to find that his heartbeat had quickened at the sound...

And felt it nearly explode, when he saw her in the second dress. Slim-fitting black, v-necked to perfection. And if he'd thought the last one had fit her fantastically, he'd been sadly mistaken, because this one looked as if it had been _painted on_. But not in that sleazy spandex way... oh god no. In the most elegant, sophisticated, holy-god-if-I-ever-met-a-woman-like-that-I'd-take-her-home-to-mother-now way.

And god... was that her... _leg_? A flash of skin, as she walked, then spun...

Oh yeah. That was _definitely_ her leg.

Warren Worthington, for the first time in years, felt his knees go weak at the mere sight of a woman, as he stared, speechless, at Jean Grey. Heart thudding fast, legs shaky, and hand clutching convulsively at the counter ledge. He opened his mouth, knowing damn well he was expected to give an opinion, though he _honestly_ hadn't heard her ask for it this time...

"I... you... Jean...," _God... idiot! Talk with your brain, not your libido!_ "You look... stunning. I'm uh..." He reached up and smoothed his hair now, leaving his hand on the back of his neck for just a moment, and feeling what he suspected was a really goofy grin spread across his face.

"I don't know what to say. You're just... beautiful."

Not the most brilliant thing he'd ever said. Probably not even a very good thing to say. But... well, "sexy as hell" was probably a little too strong. So that'd just... have to do. At least, until his brain started working again.

Again Jean's cheeks started to burn, but this time she didn't turn away. Her grin faded to a shy smile, and she looked up at him from beneath half-lowered lashes. "Thank you," she told him, trying to convey to him how much she appreciated his kind words. Warren's reaction was beyond anything she could have expected, ever, from anyone, and it made her feel wonderful. Jean then turned her attention to the sales associate who had been hovering nearby. "I'd like this one, please," she told the young woman. "And I'll wear it out."

**X X X X X**

Since Jean had expressed an interest in Italian food, Warren had suggested _Mezza Luna_. It seemed only fitting that they should have dinner at the premier Italian restaurant in the city tonight. All part of the adventure, Warren had insisted.

Jean was having the most wonderful day she'd had in a very long time. Warren had been the perfect companion as they wandered the halls of the Museum, taking in a variety of exhibits. He was knowledgeable about the different collections, and they exchanged opinions and critiques of different pieces. It was something she hadn't had the opportunity to do in years.

He was a fascinating man, Warren Worthington III. He was much more than she had expected him to be, based on the brief interaction they'd had before this day, so different from anyone else she'd had the opportunity to spend time with. He was a clever, charming, attentive, they shared a passion for so many things... and he was terribly handsome. In fact, as she sat there in the dimly lit restaurant she examined the angles of his regal face with an artist's eye (not to mention a woman's appreciation of an attractive man).

Jean was beginning to feel just a little bit guilty for how much she was enjoying Warren's company... and his attention. The way he kept capturing her eyes with his own, the way his gaze would surreptitiously scan her when he thought she wouldn't notice, the way he couldn't seem to hear enough from her, it was all so flattering. It made her feel special in a way she hadn't felt in a long time, if ever. She smiled to herself. Of course, what woman wouldn't want Warren's attention?

Watching him now as he poured over the wine list, Jean forced herself to stop feeling guilty. _He's a friend, nothing more. That's how he sees you, and that's how you see him. You love Scott, you know that, Warren knows that. You're not doing anything wrong._

Warren was rather lost in musings of his own about his companion for the evening. "They have a really nice Merlot here..." he began, swallowing convulsively, but noticing with a bit of a shock that he was managing to keep his voice level. Despite the way the soft, practically candlelit glow in the restaurant played off her hair, made it look like living fire, accented the height of her cheekbones, the darkness of her eyelashes and oh god... _Christ, Worthington. You're getting out of hand. She is in love with someone. This is just a fun night with a friend. A new friend, at that. So try not to look at her like she's on the menu, old pal._ "But white is fine as well, I'm partial to Pinot Grigio, and this one," he pointed, furrowing his brow at it, "is fairly decent. I'm always willing to try something new too. Do you prefer red or white, in general? Uh... if you want any at all, that is," he amended, quickly, realizing quite suddenly that she might not even drink wine. He just assumed, because it was what his family did, what he did all the time...

And this was what he got for paying more attention to that V-neckline of hers than to what he was talking about. Great. And god, he wasn't even technically old enough to be _buying_ a bottle of wine. Christ, how much of a spoiled brat did it make him look that he hadn't even thought of that at all, that he just walked into a restaurant and ordered whatever he wanted...?

He looked at her again, and couldn't help but feel a little better. Couldn't help but smile again. Because Jesus... just look at her. "They don't really worry too much about IDing here. Or at home," he explained, his grin becoming conspiratorial, despite his sudden anxiety. He conveniently left out the fact that they didn't care much about IDing Warren Kenneth Worthington III, in particular. Because they knew who he was here, that much he was sure of. But he didn't really want Jean to know that. And if she did already, he certainly didn't want her to hear it from him. "Works out nicely for nights like these, really."

"I can imagine," Jean replied, chuckling lightly. "White would be nice, but I don't really have a favorite. Feel free to order whichever you like."

Relieved at her reaction, even more than he'd expected to be, in fact, Warren happily ordered the Pinot Grigio. And started looking for something with a white sauce, to go with it.

When it occurred to him, as the waiter walked away to get it for them, that Jean was about to be subjected to this society of... well people with too much money and too much time on their hands. Which meant society gossip. And if the VanGuilders were there tonight, which they undoubtedly would be, in their box next to the Worthington one, with or without their horrible, snotty daughter Karlie, who they'd been trying to get him to marry for the past ten years of his life...

Hm. Perhaps he should prepare her for what was ahead. He was fairly certain she was used to this kind of place, this kind of thing. There was a certain composure about her, a certain sophistication that told him she was well within her element – it was never even a question in his mind. But perhaps anyone should be warned, who dared to go out on the town with him. In fact... he should have warned her before.

"I think I've decided what I want. What looks good to you?"

He glanced at the menu once, and then back to her. Difficult not to keep his eyes on her, really. He was trying... very hard. But they kept finding hers, and it felt too good to deny himself. "The primavera with the white sauce is fantastic. It'll be good with the wine," he told her, placing the menu flat in front of him now, and leaning forward just a little, to lower his voice. Not that anyone was near... but it still didn't hurt.

"Listen, I should have warned you before, but there are going to be... certain people there tonight who are going to be very interested in who you are. In fact, I'm sure I'll get a wake-up call from my mother tomorrow morning from London, asking me who the gorgeous redhead was that I was out with," he smiled as he thought of it, really. She'd be ecstatic, but want to know _all_ about Jean immediately. He'd have a hell of a time convincing her that the mystery girl was "just a friend"...

But then, he was having a hard time convincing himself, as well. He only hoped he could be more convincing with his mother.

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable – it's just the way things happen for me sometimes. And yes... it's a royal pain." He actually gave a small laugh at that, shaking his head and looking back down to the menu, feeling a small twinge of embarrassment for what this must sound like. But he was pretty sure she'd understand, whether or not she was terribly comfortable with it or not. God, he _hoped_ she'd understand.

And then, it occurred to him that Jean was "out of the closet" as a mutant and X-Man.

And his ears flushed with shame. In truth, one of the major reasons he felt he had to separate himself from the X-Men was his secret identity as Angel. If his parents knew... he was relatively certain they would... well he wouldn't be surprised if they completely shunned him, to be honest. And as far as he'd separated himself from them in the past few years... he didn't think he could deal with that. Not at all. But god, he wished he could have the guts to do what they did...

Of course, he reasoned, being seen with Jean didn't mean that _he_ was a mutant. And even if it did to some people, it sure as hell wasn't going to stop him now.

And as that thought hit him, he was suddenly very surprised. Because he realized that just for one night like this, he would be willing to come under question from the rest of the city. Not that he would... but it was always a possibility.

To hell with that, anyhow. He shook the thoughts from his mind, and smiled at her again, "So I wanted to make sure you're alright with that. And if not... we'll buy new tickets and sit in the third balcony, where no one can see us. But it's up to you, Jean."

Halfway though his diatribe, Jean had seen realization flash ever so briefly across Warren's face, and even without using her telepathy she knew exactly what he was thinking. Looking at him steadily, she weighed her options. The attention wouldn't bother her, she was sure. In the years she had spent away from home she had not forgotten how to handle people like the ones she knew Warren meant. She'd been taught by Elaine Grey, a master people-handler in her own right. So Jean decided to lay all the cards on the table.

"Warren," she began slowly, trying to decide exactly what to say, "quite frankly, I'm not particularly bothered by what people think. If they want to put me under a microscope simply because I'm out with you, so be it. I'm a big girl, I can handle myself." Jean paused, wondering how to phrase what she wanted to say next without insulting him. "But you know what people will learn when they find out who I am. If that's something you aren't prepared to deal with for any reason... I'll understand. Really, I will. We can end the evening now, and I'll still have had a wonderful day," she told him, a sad smile toying with her lips.

Instinctively, he reached across the table to cover her hand with his own, where it had been clutching her menu. He didn't even notice that he'd done it, until he felt how very _warm_ her hand was... His eyes caught hers, and he knew they must seem pleading. But it was hard to care. Because he felt her slipping through his fingers. And god, it made him feel sick.

"No, it's not like that at all. I want you to come... I'd _love_ for you to come, in fact. They're going to talk, why not give them something to talk about, right?"

The idea actually made the corners of his mouth turn up, just a little bit again. It _would_ be rather fun to see what people would say when word got out that Warren Worthington was associating with "one of those mutants." And what would they do, kick him out of the country club? Oh, god, how would he ever go on? His parents might have something to say about it... but he could handle them, on that issue, at least. Jean was accomplished and brilliant and everything they'd want for him – he could make them accept her. After all, she was only a friend...

"In fact, I think it would be good for me. I've spent a long time hiding... not that I'm ready to come out of hiding entirely, but... even this, today, so far, has made me feel more... free than I can possibly express to you. And more is better, as far as I'm concerned. I will deal with whatever comes, I just don't want to make you uncomfortable. That is my only concern."

Jean release her menu with her other hand and placed it on top of Warren's. Squeezing his hand gently, eyes locked with his, she smiled. "More is definitely better," she agreed. "And I would only be uncomfortable if I thought it was upsetting you, to be honest. I'll be fine."

He nearly sighed with relief – would have if he hadn't suddenly gotten a mental image of his father's most disapproving look in his head. Which simultaneously made him hold back the sigh, and smile again.

Then she added with an impish grin, "In fact, I'm looking forward to being able to raise some eyebrows. I think it will be fun."

And his grin reappeared in full force. "I love the way you think, Jean," he shook his head, allowing himself to revel for just a moment in the feeling of her hands, in the glow of that adorable grin, those fantastic eyes. God, he used to know how to have fun. Maybe he really hadn't forgotten altogether. Jean certainly seemed to be reminding him, either way.

But his attention was grabbed then by the waiter, who had silently appeared at his side, and was now looking at him, expectantly, one eyebrow raised.

Warren couldn't help but grin at Jean one last time. _It begins._ No doubt the man was speculating over the Worthington heir seemingly holding hands with a stunning nameless redhead, at that very moment.

Yes. This could be quite fun, really.

"Ready to order, sir?"

Warren nodded to Jean, in deference, and reluctantly pulled his hand back to his own side of the table. But left it lying there, just the same. Because he could still feel the warm, almost electric tingle of her touch there.

While Warren ordered for them, Jean excused herself to call Scott, just to let him know not to expect her home as early as she'd originally planned. As she returned to the table she was still frowning slightly at his reaction to her telling him she was going to be late, and that she was with Warren. He hadn't said much at all, actually. But he'd been out with his study group, and she knew he didn't like to talk on his cell phone around other people. So she brushed aside her concerns, telling herself she was just being silly.

After the wine had been delivered to their table and poured, Jean settled back in her chair sipping her drink. Warren was right, it was lovely. She looked at him across the table, over the rim of her glass, and studied him for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. She kept realizing, as if for the first time, that he was an incredibly attractive man. It wasn't something she could easily forget, but it seemed secondary to what an intelligent and genuinely _nice_ person he seemed to be.

Jean desperately wanted to know Warren, she wanted to understand him, help him in any way she could. From what she knew of him already, she liked him very much. She was right when she'd decided, just a few hours ago, that she'd found a wonderful friend in the young man sitting across from her. Now, if she could just get him to open up a little more...

He hadn't revealed a whole lot about himself directly, but little things, a casual reference here, a subtle reaction to something there, had piqued her curiosity. So she decided to test the boundaries on their still-forming friendship.

Smiling softly, eyes on his, she spoke in a gentle voice. "Is part of the reason you're reluctant to... reveal yourself publicly because of your family?"

Warren fought hard to hold her gaze, as he tried to decide just how to answer her question. But he succeeded.

His initial reaction was the natural one for him these days-- find a way to change the subject, don't talk about your parents.

It didn't even matter why that was his reaction anymore-- it just was, and had been for years. The fact that they hated something he was, had been born as, and that he could never, _never_ let them know... he never really thought about it anymore. Not that articulately. It was just this constant ache in the back of his mind at all times. Every time they called him. Every time they came for a visit.

God knew, he never called or visited them. But it still hurt.

And he really didn't think about it much anymore... hadn't thought about it lately... not in those words.

But at that moment, he did. Still, he held her gaze. And quickly found that it was almost reassuring, the gentle way her eyes latched onto his, looked right into him. And yes... it was flattering that she cared, really. Because she _did_ care. This was not just polite chit-chat. Jean Grey was not the kind of woman to make polite chit-chat, and certainly not like _this_.

Yet another thing to adore about her.

So he took another sip of his wine, rolling the light stuff around quickly, letting it cover his tongue, and swallowed. Just for a little time. And answered her, honestly. "Yes. My parents don't know about it. When I first... manifested, I guess the word is, I was living away from home, at a boarding school. The doctor who worked with me was an old family friend, and he recommended I not say anything to them until I was certain of what was happening. At first..." he shook his head at the memory of himself as a fourteen-year-old boy with half-formed wings.

"At first, I didn't want to listen. But after I was... sent home," he paused before that, deciding that the story of how and why he'd been sent home might be something for a later conversation... if it would ever be for any conversation at all. He'd never told anyone what had happened. Not from his point of view. And this story, right here... this would be more than enough confession for his weary soul tonight, he was certain. "I found that he'd been right to advise me not to tell them. When talk about mutation started cropping up with some of the research the family funds... research I've since weeded out, of course... I found that my parents were frightened to the point of... well, you know how people are. People who don't understand. They..." And now, he looked down, into his wine, just for a moment. And then flicked his eyes back to hers, which hadn't wavered once during his entire confession. "They are not and never have been mutant-friendly. They're afraid. And if they knew, it would break them. And possibly..." _me_.

He offered a rather shy smile now, for him, and shook his head. "They're good people. They just don't understand. And I'm not convinced that they can. And I'm all they have."

Jean fought hard against the tears that threatened. Warren was so completely and utterly _alone_, and it killed her to hear the hurt in his voice. What she wanted to do was run around the table and just hold him, let him know that he wasn't alone anymore. But she didn't want to cause a scene. Instead, she set down her wine glass, reached across the table with both hands and clasped his free one. She stared into his eyes, knowing that her own must be bright with unshed tears, but not caring.

"I know there's nothing I can say that will help, that will be able to take away the years of hurt," her voice was thick, emotional. "But I'm sorry. I truly am. I wish..." Jean broke off, trying to formulate her thoughts. "You're right, you're all your parents have. And I hope that someday you'll be able to let them meet the real Warren. They should have the opportunity to meet the wonderful man their son has become, mutation or no mutation."

"You _are_ helping, though," he admitted, offering a rather sad, yet grateful smile. "A few hours and I'm already talking. You don't know...You don't know how much it helps. I'd tell you if I could, but you're the one with the words, and I'm definitely no poet. It's just good to be with someone who can understand. Even if your family was understanding, you know what it would be like..." He paused and considered her. "Were they?" he ventured. "You don't have to answer, just because I did, if you don't want. But... how did they take it?"

Jean slowly straightened, pulling her hands back as she went – out of necessity, not out of desire. She wanted to be able to keep comforting him, but she knew she couldn't keep holding his hand.

She picked up her wine glass and took a sip before answering. "Well, to be perfectly honest, they were just so relieved to know what was actually wrong with me that the fact I was a mutant was almost secondary."

She realized she'd have to explain further in order for Warren to understand. It wasn't something she liked to think about, let alone talk about, but she decided it was something she needed to do, for Warren's sake.

"My telepathy manifested when I was very young – eight years old. As with many adolescent mutants, the manifestation was triggered by an emotionally traumatizing experience." Pausing, she dropped Warren's gaze and began fiddling with the salad fork. She heard the formal, clinical language she was using, and frowned to herself. _Stop detaching._ "When I was eight, my best friend and I were outside playing. She... Annie... was hit by a car. As she was dying, I felt myself being pulled down, pulled into Annie's mind. She was scared, confused, and in her panic, her mind latched on to mine. I felt her die."

Jean paused again, glancing quickly at Warren before focusing on the table cloth once again. "I don't know exactly what happened after that, to be honest, I suppose it was just too much for me to process. All I know is that I slipped into a coma. Some months later, I woke up, but then I went completely catatonic. My parents consulted specialist after specialist, and none of them could explain why I wasn't responding to treatment. They couldn't identify the cause of the catatonia. What they didn't know was that my telepathy, running unchecked, was allowing me to absorb the thoughts and memories of anyone who came within 10 feet of me. So my mind had effectively shut down in order to cope. For close to two years I remained a true medical mystery," she told him with a soft chuckle.

"But then finally, as a last resort, my parents were advised to consult Professor Xavier. After visiting me at the hospital, he knew right away what was wrong and he suppressed my telepathy completely. As soon as he did, I effectively 'came back'. My parents were so happy they didn't care that the Professor had just revealed to them that I was a mutant."

At first, Warren was simply stunned. The story of the accident that had caused her powers to manifest... so young. God, so young to deal with death and mutation and any of it. His own experience, which had only been horrific by association, the fire-starter Marc Bordeaux and the aftermath of his last explosion... none of it had done to him what this had done to Jean.

And here she was, talking about it. Fully in control of it. She could face it, what had happened to her. Certainly, her fidgeting, her difficulty holding his gaze, spoke volumes about the fact that it still wasn't easy to talk about. He didn't think for a moment that it didn't hurt her, remembering it all.

But god. So strong.

Jean took a deep breath and smiled crookedly as she looked over at Warren. "I was living at the Institute full time when my telekinesis manifested, so luckily my parents didn't have to live through _that_ nightmare," she added, a wry smile on her lips. "My abilities make my family a little bit nervous, so I'm very careful not to use my powers around them. My mother gets especially on edge if I try to move her good china telekinetically... so of course, I do that at least once every visit home." She chuckled softly. "But my parents love me for all of who and what I am. Do they like the fact that I'm _different_? Of course not. What parent would wish that kind of stigma on his or her child? But they do accept me, and I'm grateful for it. I know I'm one of the lucky ones, and I'll never take that for granted."

Taking a deep, calming breath, Jean smiled, a little self-consciously. "I'm sorry, that was a very long, convoluted answer to a simple question. Aren't you sorry you asked, now?"

He returned her smile, even gave a little laugh, picking up his forgotten wine-glass again. He'd been so interested in her every word, he'd let it sit untouched as she spoke. He wanted to touch her again, sensing from her past actions, the way she'd known just how to touch him to make him _feel_ her reassurances, that she was receptive to such forms of communication. Maybe even craved it, like he used to.

Like he did.

But now was not a good time. Not after they'd both given up so much. Scraped raw. He was pretty certain he'd already be harboring a massive, completely futile crush on her once the night was over, if he wasn't already. No need to add insult to injury.

So he took a sip of his wine, shook his head, still smiling gently, and settled for talking instead. "No, actually, I'm not sorry in the least. I can't even imagine... what it was like for you, so young. It explains how you ended up being so strong today, though. And your family sounds wonderful-- which also explains a lot about you. I... hope talking about it doesn't make you too uncomfortable. But I'm glad you felt like you could... tell me."

And he looked back into his wine glass again, which was starting to run a little low actually. Which gave him an excuse to pour more for them.

Which he figured they both might need, at this point in the evening.

The rest of dinner was much less eventful. Jean made an effort to keep the conversation light and pleasant after their darker revelations, as they both needed to focus on happier things. The wine kept flowing, mainly into her glass since Warren needed to be able to drive, and by the time they were finished dessert, they were both feeling... really good.

In fact, Warren felt much better than he had in a long time, walking out of that restaurant with Jean on his arm. He hadn't avoided a single eye, like he usually did. He had even smiled slightly.

And when she leaned on him outside, hanging on his arm like she belonged there (or maybe it was just that he was thinking she belonged there, which was really more likely, all things considered), he was even happier. Warren turned his head to look at her in the strange glow of the outdoor lighting, as they waited for the car to be brought round, face turned upward, flushed just so, probably from the wine. And his heart felt like it would explode inside of him.

Just like they always said, in the books.

And he knew it was stupid to entertain such thoughts. But, not being sure when he would have another chance to feel such a thing, he thought he could let it go. Just for tonight. Just for the experience of it.

Jean looked over at Warren and smiled warmly, giving his arm a squeeze. "Thank you again. Dinner was fantastic," she said, shivering a little as the breeze kicked up slightly. New York was in the middle of an Indian Summer, so even though it was the very beginning of October, the day had been very warm. The evening, however, was cooling off quite quickly. "I can't remember the last time I had such a wonderful evening."

He furrowed his brow, feeling her shiver against him. If he were anyone else... he could fix that. But he wasn't. "I'd give you my jacket, Jean, if I could. But I'm afraid we'd definitely make the society pages in the Daily Bugle if I took this off." He smiled gently, despite his very strong wish to accommodate her, wings twitching slightly in irritation, strapped tight to his back under the offending coat. She'd understand. As long as she knew he wanted to, after all. "I didn't think the air would turn so cool tonight. Here," he took his arm out of hers, and put it around her, his left hand on her left arm. Cool skin, slightly raised bumps, with the cold. She seemed so small, standing so close to him, despite the fact that she was quite tall. Despite her shivers, he could feel the warmth of her against his jacket. Could feel her shake slightly, as the faint breeze kicked up. As if in a dream, not really thinking of what he was doing, he ran his hand down her arm, then back up, trying to warm her.

And god, she felt good, against him like this.

But there was the car. Reluctant, but unwilling to look her in the eye just then, for more reasons than he was comfortable thinking of just then, he pulled away, and opened the door for her before the valet could get to it. And then, finally, he met her eyes again. "Shall we?"

**X X X X X**

The New Amsterdam was a beautiful theater, one of Jean's favorites on Broadway. That they were seeing _Les Misérables_ made her almost giddy – she had always loved that show, and she'd seen it many times. In fact, the soundtrack held a prized spot in her CD collection and she knew the score by heart.

Strolling through the lobby, Jean found herself once again holding Warren's arm. It felt right to her. Her mind kept drifting back to outside the restaurant, where she had stood briefly with Warren arm around her, pressed close against his side. His hand running up and down her arm, so gently, in an attempt to warm her... it had been so very nice.

They climbed the staircase to the boxes, and were given their programs and shown to their seats by their usherette, a young woman who couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from Warren. The usherette blushed when he smiled his thanks to her, and Jean grinned to herself. He was quite the charmer, whether he realized it or not.

Jean took her seat and surveyed the theater, filling slowly with the audience. The society types were easy to spot, and she couldn't help but smile at the curious looks being shot toward their box. Oh, if they only knew... Jean leaned closer to Warren and spoke in a low voice, her eyes gleaming mischievously. "So are any of those _certain people_ you were worried about here tonight?"

Warren grinned as Jean leaned in closer to him. He nodded his head to the right, and spoke low, almost into her ear. "That family right there, wants me to date their older girl – the bleach blonde one. They're staring hard enough to melt us because they are sure you're ruining her chances at grabbing me up. And she doesn't even like me. She likes coke-heads who drive really large SUVs... preferably H2s. And I know all this because my mother talks to," and with that, he gestured slightly with his left hand, past her, to where the Bexleys were sitting in their box, pretending not to watch him, "that older woman over there all the time. She's the one who'll be calling my poor mother as soon as she gets out of my line of vision long enough to pick up her phone. I'd be willing to bet that she doesn't even wait till she gets home."

He raised his eyebrows now, and felt his grin become even wider. "I think I'll introduce you around. A little fun at intermission might help us shake off the French melodrama induced depression, really."

At first, it had been a bit too distracting for Warren, having her sitting so close, with her arm _against_ him like that and her knee _right there_ so that if he moved his just a very little bit they'd be touching... And he could still smell her hair. So he really couldn't be blamed.

But before too long, the music had taken him away. He was well aware that he loved music and art because it provided him with experiences he simply didn't have for himself, any longer. And this emotional roller-coaster ride of a show one of those he remembered loving best. And he'd remembered right.

He'd always identified with Javert, for some reason. While the romance was all well and good, it was a bit much to think about at the moment, while he could feel, smell, practically _taste_ Jean so near, and had that small, fluttering crush growing larger and larger in his stomach all the while. So he stuck to the main plot, as best he could, and by the time his favorite, _Stars_, was up, he was so far into it, he was lucky he wasn't an emotional wreck.

Not that he would've cried, especially with Jean there. Just that music had that effect. It wasn't a particularly sad song, it was just such an emotionally _strong_ number that he always had a little trouble with it. And really, what kind of man concerned with right and wrong, as Warren very much was, wouldn't feel that?

After the chorus belted out the final strains of _Do You Hear the People Sing?_, the audience applauded loudly, and the house lights came up. It was only then that Jean realized how she had been sitting, how she had been pressed up against Warren, and she flushed slightly. She forced aside her embarrassment and met his eyes with what she knew must be a dreamy look on her face. _Les Misérables_ always had that effect on her.

"Well," Jean said brightly, trying to push aside the emotions brought on by the show, "this is a spectacular show so far. I've never see a better Jean Val Jean." She brushed at her skirt, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles as a distraction from Warren's piercing blue eyes. She was having a difficult time meeting his gaze all of a sudden. Mentally shaking herself, she looked up at him again and grinned. "Would you like to go stir things up a bit?"

Despite the fact that he had been suddenly _very_ aware of how close he was to Jean again once the lights were up, he managed to lead her to the VIP lounge for a drink. They stepped into the crowded room, and Warren raised an eyebrow at her playfully – suddenly, blessedly, feeling some more of the heaviness slide off of him, as it had when she'd first grinned and suggested they come "stir things up." It didn't escape him that every head in the room, minus two or three, turned to look at them. Some tried to be discreet. Some just didn't care. But everyone noticed.

Warren _never_ made appearances here, when he came to the theater. Usually just sat in his box. And it was taking _quite_ the effort not to laugh aloud at the reaction he was getting.

The Bexleys were making a beeline for them. Mrs. was already halfway across the room, and Mr. wasn't far behind. And she had a glass of champagne in her hand, not surprisingly. "That's Mrs. Alva Bexley," Warren said, under his breath, still trying not to laugh at her purposeful stride toward them. "I'd bet anything she's already half gone-- one drink and she's gone, her liver has been done in for about twenty years, so my mother says." And then, he looked up at the oncoming rush of old-lady-fussiness. And smiled. But not really at Mrs. Bexley. More at the fact that Jean was on his arm.

When she reached them, she immediately started in on him. "Warren Worthington, how _lovely_ to see you out with a young lady at last! We were beginning to think that you'd _never_ agree to it, and I can't _tell_ you how happy I am to see you with this beautiful girl!"

Warren tried to keep his eyebrows and smile in check, but he was fighting against nature. Hard. "Mrs. Bexley, this is Jean Grey, a friend of mine." He took a slight step away from her, knowing that she'd be expected to link hands with the older woman, and no doubt her husband, the minute he kicked it into a high enough gear to make it across the room.

Releasing Warren's arm, Jean took the older woman's hand and smiled winningly. "It's lovely to meet you, Mrs. Bexley. How are you enjoying the show?" The older woman chattered away, and Jean pretended to listen, nodding and smiling when appropriate.

But there was someone in the room projecting very loud, decidedly unfriendly thoughts, and as much as Jean strengthened her shields, she couldn't completely tune it out. Surreptitiously glancing around the room so as not to appear rude to the still-rambling Mrs. Bexley, Jean's gaze finally landed on a blond woman who was glaring in their direction. Jean recognized her as the girl Warren had pointed out in the box next to theirs, the one whose parents had been trying to play matchmaker. Warren had said the young woman didn't like him. Jean wasn't so sure about that, if the thoughts she was hearing were, as she suspected, coming from the blond... who was, at that moment, approaching them.

Warren noticed that Karlie VanGuilder was no longer just staring, but was actually coming in their direction, and he suddenly stopped smiling. _Great. Of all the times to decide she needs to talk to me._

But then he looked over at Jean again, who had obviously noticed the angry bleach blonde invasion (a perfect, scrawny nightmare in her ridiculously bright red, too tight dress, and her metric ton of makeup and fake-tan), and still looked completely at ease. And Warren smiled again, and slid an arm around her waist, resting his hand at her hip, and standing just a bit behind her, so that his leg was brushing against hers, front to back. Subtle, no huge display of affection... but enough.

He told himself it was just for appearances sake. But god... she felt good. _Relax, Worthington. It's just been awhile... a long... LONG while..._

Mrs. Bexley was still talking when Karlie arrived and put herself right in front of him. Warren fought the grin that was twitching at his lips, and pretended to be listening very intently to what the older woman was saying. He couldn't resist giving Jean a little squeeze, to communicate his amusement with the situation to her, as she kept nodding and smiling brilliantly.

"I thought you were going to call last week," Karlie practically barked, the moment Mrs. Bexley had to stop chattering at Jean and take a breath.

Warren squeezed Jean again and wrestled his smile down with much pain. "I wasn't aware that you needed me for something... but it's nice to see you too, Karlie. This is my friend, Jean Grey. Jean Grey, Karlie VanGuilder."

Jean tried very hard not to smirk. Having realized what Warren hoped to accomplish by his subtle display of affection, and more than happy to play along, she leaned back against him just enough to make sure that Karlie noticed. And judging by the barely concealed scathing glare directed at Jean, Karlie had definitely noticed. _I bet your grandest ambition in life is to become a trophy wife for some poor schmuck,_ Jean said silently, her sweetest smile plastered across her face. Aloud, she said, "Hello, Karlie. It's so nice to meet you." Jean was struck by one very loud, unconsciously projected word: _bitch_.

Biting back a laugh at that and, without even realizing what she was doing, Jean sent a very amused message directly to Warren. _-- I thought you said she didn't like you? She's ready to claw my eyes out with her fake nails.--_

As soon as the thought had been sent to Warren, Jean felt panic streak through her. Oh no, what had she done? This wasn't Scott she was with, not even one of the other X-Men, someone who was used to the occasional telepathic conversation. This was a man who seemed to guard his privacy, someone who wouldn't welcome the idea of someone poking around in his head. Which was something she would never do, of course, was something she didn't need to do in order to speak with someone telepathically. But Warren didn't know that.

At first, it was a bit of a shock for Warren. A sound in his mind-- no, not even a sound. Almost like a touch, or an impression of her left on him somehow, on his mind. If it had been anyone else, he no doubt would have been... uncomfortable with it.

But it made him smile, for some reason, not to mention that he felt instinctively... comfortable with it. It wasn't just words, there was a kind of amusement that was behind them-- almost like a tone of voice, but somehow even more unmistakably expressive.

He wasn't sure if she'd be able to hear what he was thinking, if she could do that or not, without... digging deeply into his mind. So he decided to test it, holding back a laugh at the mental image of the horrific blonde girl trying to take on Jean with those... god those were rather frightening nails. _--It's not me, it's my name.--_ He attempted to put at the front of his mind, where he thought it might be accessible. If it was, great. If not, she'd never know the difference. And they could laugh about it later.

Finally, faintly, Jean heard Warren's reply. There was no sense of irritation in his tone, and she let herself relax. _He's not mad,_ she thought to herself, relieved more than she could say. _Thank god._

Warren kept smiling his best "please the shareholders" smile at Karlie, who was eyeing Jean up like a jungle predator, only without the innate grace. The blonde girl didn't even bother to acknowledge what Jean had said to her-- instead, she simply said, "Haven't seen you around before. We didn't know that Warren had friends outside...," she put her hand on her hip and her nose in the air, "you know. _Us._"

Warren shook his head, not even wanting to know who this nebulous "us" was, and slid his hand up Jean's side, just to where she... dipped. God, that was brilliant, the smooth, wonderful curve of her, just at her waist. He fought to keep his touch light, and simply could not stop smiling. "What you don't know about me, Karlie, I could write volumes on," he said, under his breath, with a slight laugh.

Jean heard the hushed comment and chuckled, then reached across her middle and rested her hand on top of the one Warren had on her waist. Karlie didn't miss the gesture, but apparently hadn't heard Warren's remark.

Warren's breath caught in his throat as he felt Jean's hand on his. Warm. And so. Close.

He forced himself back into a state of normality, however, sternly informing his blood that it really ought to stop rushing, and his lungs that they should go about their business. Nothing to see here, after all. Just a little show.

"Oh, Warren and I met quite a while back," Jean said sweetly, looking up and beaming at Warren before turning back to the blond girl. "We even spent some time together in London, actually." Well, they _had_. Karlie didn't have to know that it was only one night, there had been several other people there with them, and that she and Warren had barely spoken to each other the entire time. "But it's funny," Jean said thoughtfully, cocking her head to the side, the picture of innocence, "Warren often speaks of his friends, and I don't believe he's ever mentioned you."

Karlie came as close to sputtering in anger as any high society girl did. Instead she glared daggers at Jean and Warren before spinning around on her heel and stalking back across the room.

Jean couldn't help herself. It was too perfect to let go.

Just a tiny little nudge with her telekinesis, and Karlie was stumbling inelegantly - not quite enough to fall, but enough to call a good deal of attention to herself. "Oh dear, she really should be more careful," Jean said, brows drawn together in concern. She was very proud of herself for not smiling.

Warren almost lost it. He settled instead for giving her a slight squeeze, and nodding solemnly. Oh. That was far too convenient to be an accident. "Agreed. Those shoes look like Prada, and if she's going to be clumsy she really shouldn't be allowed to wear them."

As if he gave a fuck about Prada.

But he knew Karlie did.

"Well, Mrs. Bexley, if you'll excuse us we should probably get a drink before the show starts again. Nice to see you again, and tell your husband hello for me," Warren nodded in the direction that the older man had paused in his progress toward them, having been caught up by some investor of his. With that, he gently started walking toward the bar... loosening his hold on Jean a little, without removing his hand from her waist.

After all, had to keep up appearances.

"Was it me, or was that brilliant timing on her little stumble?" he whispered, leaning close to her, pretending not to be smelling her hair at all, as they came nearer to the bar.

Barely suppressing her laughter, and completely unable to hide her impish grin, Jean replied, "I don't know _what_ you mean." Then she did lose control, and started giggling. "Oh God, I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist. She really is horrible, and so easy to mess with."

Jean quickly sobered, though, and realized they needed to talk, just to make sure everything was ok between them. So before they reached the bar, she steered them off to the side, away from the crowd. Without stepping away from him, she turned so she could meet his questioning gaze. "Look, Warren, I'm sorry if I freaked you out by speaking to you telepathically," she told him, her voice hushed. "I forgot myself. I talk to Scott that way all the time, and I just... forgot." _You mean you forgot that the man whose arm felt so good around your waist wasn't your boyfriend,_ she scolded herself. "I forgot that you wouldn't be used to it, that you might not even like the idea that I can do that. I don't have to go into your mind to speak to you that way, or to hear your reply. If you project it like you did, and I'm listening for it, I can pick it up without hearing anything else. I can't explain how I do it, exactly, just that I can."

She knew she was rambling again, and she knew she probably looked rather earnest in her desire for him to not be upset, but she really didn't want him to be uncomfortable with the idea of what she could do. Jean broke eye contact for a moment, staring intently at Warren's tie. "I know telepaths make a lot of people uncomfortable. It's a scary concept, the idea of someone being able to go into your mind without your knowledge or permission." Lifting her gaze again she met his eyes, hoping he would be able to see her sincerity. "I would never do that - just go into anyone's mind. The very idea of it... I would never violate anyone like that. And I won't speak to you telepathically if you have any problem with it. I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Warren resisted an almost overwhelming urge to push back a stray strand of red hair that was falling just a little too close to her eye. And swallowed hard, trying to relax himself enough to answer her properly. Because no, he wasn't uncomfortable. Not in the least.

In fact, he liked what she'd said so much... she'd _forgotten_ to keep a distance from him. She _wanted_ to maintain that kind of contact with him... it was so personal and private and their own little in joke that no one else would ever know about...

"No, I'm not uncomfortable with it at all," he forced out, commanding himself to maintain his control, to not sound quite as lonely as he felt, when he thought of what it would be like for the rest of the nights, without this kind of easy interaction he'd been _craving_ for so long... the kind he could never find anywhere else because already he... "I trust you. I trust Xavier, first of all, and you're his student. I know he's a good man, an ethical man, and even if I didn't know you to be at least as ethical, which I do after today, I would trust you with your powers. And second... I'm honestly a bit... flattered, that you'd... forget that we don't know each other that well. Maybe it's backwards but... well, I'm having a good time, I guess. I forgot too. Still haven't remembered."

Jean blushed a bit, pleased that he seemed to be as at ease with her as she was with him. It was just so strange for her to feel so instantly comfortable with someone who, for all extents and purposes, she'd only just met. She was thrilled to know it wasn't one-sided.

"I admit," Warren smiled, hand practically twitching to brush that hair back, put it in its place, maybe let his fingers touch her face just a little..., "it was a bit of a shock. But... useful trick, that. You handled her beautifully, Jean. I should bring you to all public functions, maybe I wouldn't dread them quite so much."

"Anytime you want the company, Warren, I'd be more than happy to go with you," Jean told him, smiling warmly. "I've had far too much fun with you tonight. So if you want someone to help you deal with the Karlies and Mrs. Bexleys of the world, I'll be there. I think we make a pretty good team."

She could not possibly have known what those words meant to him. It was so easy for her, being friendly. Touching him like this, it probably meant nothing to her. But to Warren, who had to be careful not to get too physically close to anyone, who had to stay away from crowds for fear of someone bumping into his back, who lived with such physical and emotional distance from _everyone_ he knew, _every_ day...

He only hoped she meant it.

Warren's hand twitched again, and he couldn't resist any longer. He reached up and pushed the stray hair back, allowing his thumb to just _barely_ brush the smooth, pale skin of her cheek as he did so. Maybe it lingered just a little too long. Maybe he was still standing just a little too close for such a gesture to be... _okay_. Maybe Jean was Scott's girl and Scott was supposed to be his friend, and she had no interest in being this close to him whatsoever aside from the fun she was having putting on this show for the horrid society types...

But he didn't care. Because it felt good anyway. "You'll be hearing from me before long then," he told her, sincerely, just... looking at her. One of those looks that he wanted to break, because it made him feel like he couldn't breathe, the way her eyes were holding his. But that he couldn't break at all. For the exact same reason.

God, it almost _hurt_, really.

After what felt like an eternity, despite the fact that he knew it had only been a second or two, he tore his eyes from her emerald ones _(just like the stones back at the store... how can they be the __**exact**__ same color?)_, and started to move toward the bar again, feeling quite dizzy. Drunk on the smell of her hair and that slight brush against her face and her eyes...

_Not for you, Worthington. _

_So you'd better enjoy the company while you have it._

"Better get a drink before the second act," he forced out, in his best 'everything is perfectly normal' voice. "We can take them back with us, I suppose we've had enough fun with this crowd."

The second act of the show had been fantastic. Jean had cried openly, not at all worried that Warren would notice. He wouldn't tease her for it, he wouldn't think any less of her. So she allowed herself to be completely swept away by the actors and the story and the music, and wiped the tears from her cheeks as the audience gave the cast a standing ovation.

When Jean suggested to Warren that he simply drop her at the train station so she could catch the 11:50 train back to Bayville, he'd refused, insisting on driving her home. They were presently just leaving Manhattan, and Jean was facing forward, but watching Warren out of the corner of her eye, a small, contented smile on her lips. The glow from the dashboard lights cast strange shadows across his chiseled features, and she found herself transfixed by him. They rode in silence for several long minutes, completely at ease with each other, the quiet filled only by the purr of the engine and the soft music coming from the stereo.

"I know I've said it before, but thank you," Jean said, turning to look at him. "This day was so unexpected, nothing like I'd planned when I decided to escape real life for a day at the Museum. It turned out to be so much better than I ever could have hoped. I'm so glad we ran into each other."

Feeling a huge smile creeping up on him, Warren took his eyes off the road long enough to get a good look at her. Beautiful in the low light. Looking at him.

God. Almost over now. But she was happy. She'd had a good time. They'd talked about art. About what they loved. About beautiful things. They'd talked about themselves. Things that neither of them had said to anyone else. They'd had a laugh, or ten, at the expense of the people who made his life so bloody irritating sometimes. And he'd felt her. Her hand on his, her "voice" in his head.

All in all, he knew he was damn lucky to have had it. And even if she changed her mind tomorrow, decided that his company wasn't quite as desirable as it had seemed tonight, for some odd reason... it didn't matter.

And yes, he was aware that he was being dramatic about this. It was no big deal to her, to spend time with him. But it was a big deal to him. And between his perpetual, customary loneliness, and the emotional rawness he felt in the aftermath of the show... he didn't really give a damn. Not at all.

"You're very welcome, and you're welcome to it any time. But you don't need to thank me. I should thank you. Think of what my day would've been like without you...," he laughed softly, eyes securely, safely, back on the road. And shook his head a little at the unreality of this moment. He felt like he should tell her... just what she'd done, spending the day with him like this. But he didn't think he could, without sounding... like he was nursing the world's largest, most pathetically hopeless crush ever. Which, of course, he was. In fact, he couldn't even bring himself to look back over at her, because every time he had, he'd felt this strange hardness in his throat. And he couldn't swallow it.

Jean smiled a little sadly at that. She thought he'd been joking about being a 'paranoid recluse', but apparently not. The 'paranoid' part had yet to be confirmed, but Jean now knew that he really didn't go out much, didn't spend much time with friends. It was because of his fear of being discovered as a mutant, Jean knew, which made her heart ache for him. With a physical mutation such as Warren's, there was always the chance that someone would feel it, glimpse it. It must be very nerve-wracking for him.

Warren didn't want to end the night on such a... serious note. After all, she wasn't some lonely recluse like him. She'd wanted to go out and have fun, and she had. So he made sure his smile was still in place, and continued, "And I really mean what I said, we should do this more often. Dealing with crowds is so much more fun in your company. Not to mention looking at sculpture. And I'm not giving up until I see some of yours, by the way." He laughed at that, genuinely.

Jean laughed with him, and shook her head again. Warren had no idea how insecure she was about showing her art to anyone. If she was really satisfied with a sculpture, then she would show it to the subject, as she had Professor Xavier. Otherwise, it was hidden away, never to be seen by anyone but her. Then Jean remembered that her sculptures had been destroyed along with the Institute after the Sentinel incident. She had nothing to show him, even if she'd wanted to. Maybe she'd have to find the time to start sculpting again...

"Maybe I'll send you a text soon. I can let you know what my mother had to say, when I talk to her in roughly...," he looked at the clock and shook his head, "six hours, if my calculations are correct."

"God, I'm sorry," Jean laughed. "I can't even imagine... actually, yes I can. If our situations were reversed, my mother would do the exact same thing." She shook her head, imagining the look on Elaine Grey's face is she knew Jean had spent the evening out with Warren Worthington III. That was information probably better left unshared with Mommy Dearest, Jean decided. "I've always got my phone with me, and it's always on," she admitted, "so text me anytime. It's a great way to keep in touch.

"And I meant it, Warren. Anytime you want the company, just let me know. We'll tag-team the social elite, and they'll never know what hit them," Jean told him with a grin. "But don't let that be the only time we see each other. Stop by the Institute anytime. I've told you before, you're always welcome. It would give you the chance to get to know some of the others. They're good people, and I think you'd rather enjoy some of them. I know they manage to keep me fairly entertained, when they're not trying to drive me crazy."

Warren smiled at her, shooting another glance in her direction. Feeling that lump in his throat. And liking it. "I'm sure I'd enjoy them, Jean. And I hope you understand... at least some of my reasons for being reluctant. I do appreciate all that the X-Men do, for me and for the rest of the world. You know that. But... yeah with a little time... maybe."

He knew it wasn't much, but it was all he had. As much as he'd love to be a part of something like that... there were too many factors that needed considering. And he wasn't going to jump into anything just because the most beautiful, sensitive, intelligent, clever girl he'd ever had the pleasure to meet suggested that he might like it.

Even if he knew she was right.

"Maybe I can come by this week, be Warren instead of Angel. I'll talk to Scott--" And he stopped there, blinking. Scott. Scott, whose girlfriend he now had an irrepressible crush on. Scott, who had been the first to contact him, the only one who had kept that contact...

Of course, he hadn't _done_ anything wrong. He'd been a perfect gentleman... aside from a little touching... but that was a show, right? Nothing to feel guilty about.

He stole another glance at Jean then, pale and perfect in the moonlight, eyes practically glowing.

No. Nothing at all.

"Maybe he wouldn't mind a visit either," he finished, eyes returning to the task at hand, hoping desperately that his slight pause had gone unnoticed. Or that it could at least be chalked up to some sort of obstacle on the road, or maybe even a hiccup, or... anything but that.

Jean paused, frowning slightly, fiddling with the material of her skirt. "I'm sure Scott would welcome your visit. He... well, he's been rather preoccupied with things lately – school, the team, that kind of thing." She looked out the window again, gathering her thoughts, trying not to let Warren see how much she was bothered by the fact that she and Scott didn't feel like they could make time for each other anymore. "Anyway, I think Scott would be very happy if you visited. He'd have a fresh audience to impress with him plans for the team." Jean grinned at him again. "And of course, I'd love it if you visited, and I'll harass you until you do, so you really don't have a choice."

The conversation kept up it's pace all the way home, but Warren found he was working harder and harder to keep his smile in place as they came nearer to the Institute. But finally, it had to happen, and Warren shot her one last smile, then got out, and pulled her door open, holding out a hand to help her out of the car.

Jean accepted his hand and forced herself to keep smiling.

"Here's your stop, I'm afraid. Thanks again, Jean. I...," he swallowed hard, watching her face, white and lovely and glowing in the moonlight. "I had a wonderful time, thanks to your company. We'll talk soon."

He was saying that last part more to himself than to her, of course. But as he helped her from the car, he couldn't help but feel that it had to be true.

"Of course we will." Jean gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "If I don't hear from you, I'll just have to track _you_ down," she threatened playfully. "I wasn't kidding about harassing you, you know."

Warren squeezed her hands back, so small, so soft in his own, and smiled, genuinely. "I never thought I'd look forward to harassment, but suddenly I very much am." And he laughed, just a little, at that.

His smile and gentle laugh did Jean in. She just couldn't help herself. She pulled her hand out of his, stood on her toes and reached her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly.

After the initial shock, Warren closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around her waist, taking a deep breath, wondering if she could feel his heart pounding away in his chest, a thousand miles a minute and only getting faster. He turned his face slightly inward, partially burying it in her mass of red hair, and god it smelled like vanilla and lemon and it felt so soft... and she felt so right.

Warren couldn't even blame it on the fact that it had been a long time since he'd held a woman like this. He kept trying to form the thought in his mind, to calm himself, snap himself back into reality. But he couldn't. Because he knew better. He'd learned to live without affection, no matter how he craved it. But Jean... Jean was something different entirely.

So he just let it go, and smiled into her hair, eyes closed, and tightened his arms around her for what he could only hope would feel like a friendly squeeze.

He felt like he should kiss her, to be honest.

But he knew better than to think that it felt like that for her too.

So he pulled away, after a few moments, and took her hand again. "Good night, Jean," he smiled down at her, already stepping away. "And thank you again."

Jean had a hard time meeting Warren's eyes, but did, hoping that her flaming cheeks were camouflaged by the poor lighting. She smiled back at him, shyly. "Good night," she told him, trying to make her voice sound normal. Reluctantly she released his hand and headed for the main doors of the Institute. Jean tried to resist the urge to turn around, but it was too much. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Warren climb into his car. She smiled and waved, even though she wasn't sure whether or not he'd see her. Reaching the door, she turned around once again to see him pull away.

"See you soon, Warren," she said quietly, to herself.


	4. Interlude 1

_**Interlude**_

_Week 1: Saturday night_

Jean pushed through the mansion's main doorway, still smiling to herself, surprised to find everything was dark. It was only a little past midnight on a Saturday. Where was everybody?

Deciding to grab a quick bite before heading upstairs for the night, Jean went down to the kitchen. It too was deserted. Why was it whenever she felt like talking to people, nobody was around? She was in a wonderful mood, and didn't want to go to bed yet.

Jean rummaged through the fridge, grinning triumphantly when she found a piece of chocolate cake, obviously left over from that night's dessert. She was stunned that there were any leftovers at all, actually. Especially dessert. To her mind, that proved that most of the others must have gone out for evening and hadn't gotten back yet. So cake in hand, she crossed the kitchen to the window seat. There, she sat in the semi darkness eating the rich treat, replaying the day's events in her head.

When she'd decided to play hooky from her responsibilities earlier that day and retreat to the Met, she'd never expected things to turn out the way they had. Obviously. She'd hoped for a fun, relaxing time, which she'd had, most definitely. But she'd not planned on spending the day with anyone else, let alone a new friend who would transform the day into something truly special.

The overhead light turning on snapped Jean out of her musings. Looking up, she smiled warmly at the newcomer. Scott. "Hey," she greeted him, trying to squash the slight feeling of guilt that set up residence in the pit of her stomach. It was silly. She had nothing to feel guilty about, after all. She'd spent the day with a friend, that's all. And that friend just happened to be a charming, intelligent, attractive man whose company she had enjoyed immensely.

But Warren was _just_ a _friend_.

Absolutely nothing to feel guilty about.

Scott smiled at Jean and then did a double take. "Whoa," he said with a slow grin, motioning for her to stand and turn around for him. She complied, gladly. "You look amazing. You definitely weren't wearing that when you left here this morning."

Pleased at his reaction, Jean sat down again and grinned back at him. "No, I bought it this afternoon. I needed something dressy for tonight."

Scott nodded, then turned to the fridge, opening the door and scanning the contents. "Did you and Warren have fun?"

"Yeah, we did," she admitted.

"I didn't realize you knew him that well."

"I don't," Jean told him after swallowing a bite of cake. "I'd never really talked to him before today."

He looked at her over his shoulder, eyebrow raised in surprise. "You hardly know him, but you spent the whole day with him?"

She shrugged, trying not to squirm under his gaze. "We hit it off," Jean replied simply. "And he wasn't too thrilled with the idea of going to the theater by himself, so I kept him company."

Apparently satisfied with that answer, Scott went back to rummaging for a snack. "How's he doing, anyway?"

"He's good. I think I managed to convince him to come by for a visit sometime soon," she told him, licking a blob of icing off her finger.

"Great! I've been trying to get him to visit for months now. I guess between the two of us we finally wore him down." Scott emerged from the fridge with nothing, apparently unimpressed with the selection.

Jean held up her plate with the cake. "I'm willing to share, if you're interested."

Grinning, Scott grabbed a fork from the drawer then joined her on the window seat. He took a large forkful and stuffed it in his mouth happily.

"How was your study session?" Jean asked, spearing her own piece of chocolate decadence.

"It was fine," he told her after swallowing. "We got a lot done, had a bit of fun. So it was good."

She nodded, not quite knowing what else to say. A silence fell between them as they both concentrated on eating the quickly-shrinking piece of chocolate cake. When they were done, Scott took the dish and forks over to the sink, rinsing them off and putting them away.

He approached her again, smiling gently. "You really do look amazing. I'm jealous that Warren got to spend a whole evening out with you dressed like that," he teased.

"Well, the next time you and I spend a fancy night out together, I promise I'll wear this dress," Jean told him with a slightly forced smile, knowing the odds of them going anywhere anytime soon that she'd need to wear such a dress were slim. "How's that?"

"Sounds perfect," Scott told her. He leaned down and kissed her, lingering slightly, and Jean leaned toward him as her eyes drifted closed. Their lips moved against each other, tenderly. "Want to go upstairs for a little bit before you go to sleep?" he asked, voice low, as he pulled back just a fraction.

Jean smiled and opened her eyes, catching his behind his glasses. "Sure," she told him after a split-second hesitation, and took his hand as he helped her to her feet.

As she and Scott left the kitchen and made their way upstairs, hand-in-hand, Jean wondered why she had hesitated to accept the invitation for some alone time with her boyfriend.

And she wondered why the knot pressing insistently in her stomach wasn't going away.

**X X X X X**

The minute he closed the door behind him, Warren dropped his keys and started peeling off his clothes.  
  
First the jacket and tie, which he threw onto the couch as he walked by. Quickly.  
  
Next, the harness, which he started unfastening the moment he got to the foot of the steps. He stopped by the bed in his loft for a few moments, since it took him a good while to get the thing off properly. And he dropped it onto his bed, with a grunt of distaste. His wings twitched, impatiently, at his back, still folded up as if in silent prayer.  
  
He had his shirt off by the time he made it to the closet, and his belt and shoes were on the floor in front of it as he searched for his sweats.  
  
Mission accomplished, he lost his pants in short order, stepping out of them like he used to when he was twelve years old and getting scolded for leaving his pants on the floor, and pulling on the soft, grey drawstring sweats he slept in.  
  
To hell with the shirt for now. He started up the second set of stairs, to the roof door. It was supposed to be locked at all times, and barricaded, of course.  
  
But who was going to tell Warren Worthington that the door in his own tower couldn't be opened, if he didn't want it to be? _Sometimes_ having the name was good. Just... sometimes. On nights like these. When he _needed_ to fly.  
  
The night air was warm, but up this high, over New York City, there was a slight breeze. It kicked up, ruffled his hair, his feathers, making his wings tingle slightly. He stretched the poor things now, for the first time in too many hours to think of, since he finally had room, up here on the roof. They spread out, slowly, on either side of him, practically groaning with the strain of having been caught up in a harness all day long. He felt the thin, super strong muscles in them creaking in relief, felt the slight wind in his feathers...  
  
And smiled. Nothing like that feeling in the whole world. Sometimes, he thought it was almost worth having to wear the harness, just so he would appreciate the freedom he found when he _finally_ got rid of the damn thing. Made his blood rush and his heart beat faster.  
  
Kind of like she did.  
  
A few quick test-beats of his powerful wings, and Warren pushed off the ground with strong legs, and pumped hard until he was well above the rooftop. And then... he truly took off.

Catching the air current, he took a deep breath, and began to glide on it with an effortless grace that came only from long years of practice. His heart was thudding hard, but not because he was worried. This was New York City, after all. Only tourists ever looked up. He'd be safe, so far above, from prying eyes. The wind in his feathers, the rush of it against his newly-freed wings, that was what was causing the rush. That feeling of freedom he only ever felt when he was here, alone, above. These moments when he thought he wouldn't trade his mutation for all the friends, all the family, all the company in the world.  
  
That... and of course, the fact that he'd had an undeniable rush since the moment Jean Grey had ended up in his arms, just before she'd gone inside the house.  
  
He dipped down, as the thought occurred to him again, building up speed with a few beats of his wings, pushing at the air, using it, building on it. And then back upward, with a few more, hard, fast, now that he was warmed up.  
  
And he knew damn well that it was nothing to her. He'd known it all night. Going out, having fun, laughing, talking, touching. Even speaking telepathically. Maybe it wasn't something she did with everyone, not right off... that was possible. But she was certainly used to it. And god... god he was pathetic...  
  
He turned sideways, twisting through the current, clearing his mind for just a moment so that he could fully appreciate the feeling of the wind over his skin, raking across his chest, through his wings, pulling at his sweats. Like light fingers brushing over him, gentle and cool and god no thinking about that kind of thing tonight. He righted himself in the air, and beat his wings harder again, in a definite attempt to work up a decent sweat. To fly until it hurt so good he had to stop and fall asleep.  
  
Because god, there was just no way he was going to get her out of his head. And she wouldn't let him sleep, he knew that.  
  
Her eyes were the exact same color as that emerald. And she had tripped Karlie. And she'd listened to his embarrassing confessions about Monet. And she'd told him about her mutation. And she wanted him to come and visit. And she'd put her arms around his neck, and he'd held her close... _so_ close, just for a minute.  
  
But it was nothing.  
  
So he flew harder and faster... until it hurt wonderfully. Beautifully. And he was too tired, too free, to think any more.

* * *

To our reviewers... oh, how we love thee! 3 

Furygrrl-- Excellent, so glad you're enjoying! So glad to hear that the interaction is engrossing-- sometimes it's hard to tell. God knows we enjoyed playing them out/making them into a fic, but sometimes it's hard to tell if it's going to work for everyone else. Your words are definitely encouraging. We'll definitely be updating regularly-- the obsession with the pairing has been around for quite awhile, and it doesn't look like it's going anywhere any time soon. Thank you! –Beaubier

Foenixfyre - Glad you're liking it so far! Combining our styles has been the hardest thing for us to accomplish to this point. I'm sure it will get easier as the story progresses. Right now we're very conscious of the differences, so it's wonderful to hear that you think we're going a good job blending! Yes, it is a departure from my other fics. In fact, I've been experiencing something of a backlash from many of the readers of my Scott/Jean stories. I'm so glad there are people like you willing to keep an open mind! Beaubier is, indeed, a fantastic writer. You'll love her other fics, I promise. So go read them. Now! :) –Jen

Illmantrim - The thing with the characterization in Warren's case is that so little about him is actually shown during the few episodes he appears in. Yes, there is a basic personality established, which Beaubier has kept to beautifully, I think, but there's so much unknown about him... that's where the fun lies. Because she's making him three-dimensional. Giving him depth. Making him likable. As for Jean, no apologies necessary for your observation. I hadn't thought about it, really, and hadn't intentionally incorporated any of Movieverse Jean into my Jean, but maybe subconsciously... or maybe it's just the future doctor thing. Regardless, glad you're liking it so far! –Jen

Lyranfan-- Why thank you! So glad you are enjoying the dynamic with our two favorites here. It's true, great minds DO think alike, and the world could do with more Jean/Warren, so do it a favor, add to the pool! And yes... I (Beaubier) was an art history major in college. Maaaan, I'm so obvious. Thanks for the kind words, and hope you're still enjoying! –Beaubier

Risty-- Hiiii! cough Right, so anyhow, Jen's Jean makes us all happy, and she's an evil evil woman for doing that to us... and I'm glad you enjoy the millionaire playboys. God I love them... Right, anyhow, keep getting off track. Yes, it was a bit of an issue making it into pure fic form, but it's one of those labor of love things. And really... it's kinda fun editing it, in a sick, obsessive sort of way. Thanks for reading babe! –Beaubier

Wen - Sorry, sweetie, but if you're looking for a happy Scott/Jean story, you're really going to hate us (but especially me, I'm sure) by the time this story's over. –Jen


	5. Interlude 2

_**Interlude 2**_

_  
Week 1: Sunday_

Warren was rudely awakened by the sound of his own voice, a sound he wasn't particularly fond of, on his answering machine. And then his mother's.  
  
"Warren, dear, I'm just calling to say hello. It's tea time here, and you know I like to see that you're up bright and early... but I suppose you've had a long night. Please call when you wake up, I miss you darling!"  
  
He groaned into his pillow, stretching his wings out absently, so that they stretched upward simultaneously, halfway to the ceiling, and then let them come to rest again. God that had been a hell of a flight last night. He'd call her later... he didn't feel like dealing with this at all. He'd been having a rather nice dream involving Jean Grey's lovely green eyes... and the slit in her skirt that went all the way up to _there_.  
  
His mother could bloody well wait.  
  
_Brrrrrriiiinnnggg. Brrrrrriiiiinnnnggg._  
  
"You've reached 555-2341. I can't come to the phone right now, please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."  
  
_Beeeeep_  
  
"Warren, it's your mother again. Your father and I are going out to do some shopping today, so when you call back, call my cell phone. We're both looking forward to hearing from you. It's been too long, dear."  
  
Warren forced his eyes open and looked at his digital alarm clock, squinting through the awful glow of the early morning sunshine. Not that he wasn't a morning person...  
  
Well, alright, he wasn't. Not really. But honestly. It was 6:43 AM. Couldn't she wait till evening to call him?  
  
Who was he kidding? She'd probably been bursting to call all morning. It must've been a hell of a trial to wait until 6:00, for the first one, even.  
  
He pulled his down pillow over his head, tucking up his wings instinctively as he rolled over onto his side, sighing in exasperation. Dammit, and he'd almost gotten the dream back too.  
  
_Beeeeeeep_  
  
"Warren, honey, please pick up the phone. I know you like to sleep late, but--"  
  
Warren actually managed a slight growl as he pushed himself up to sitting, somewhat painfully, raked a hand through his blonde hair, and glanced at the alarm clock-- 7:30AM. Wonderful. And he had absolutely nothing to do all day long, and he was awake at 7:30.  
  
He padded to the dresser, where the cordless phone was laying, and clicked it on, not even listening to anything his mother had said since he'd forced himself to sit up. "Hello mother, I'm up."  
  
"Darling, I'm sorry, but I wanted to speak to you so badly. You haven't called in weeks."  
  
Warren didn't bother noting that he never called them. Calling them meant questions, and questions meant lies. And too many lies, he knew, would only sink him, in the end. Talking to his father was easier, of course. Warren Kenneth Worthington, Jr. was a businesslike man, and didn't much care for chatting on the phone. They talked business, said I love you, and hung up. Katherine Worthington, on the other hand...  
  
Making his way to the stairs, absently adjusting his drawstring sweats, as they'd sunk far too low for comfort while he slept, and fluttering his wings just a bit, to get his blood pumping (they always felt a little sluggish in the morning), he replied, "Yes, I know, and I'm glad to hear from you. What's the important event that prompted the frantic morning phone calls, though?"  
  
As if he didn't know. But if she was going to wake him up at 6AM, out of a dream about Jean in her black dress, he was definitely going to make her work for this. It's not as if it was something he'd get to experience every day, after all. Dreams were pretty much all he had to work with.  
  
But she gave in all too quickly for it to be too much fun. Not that much of _anything_ would be fun at this hour, after last night's flight. Unless it involved Jean and that dress. Or lack thereof.  
  
Oh Christ, it was too early for this... he was just uncouth in the morning, was the thing. Thank god no one was ever around to find out. But dammit... he was a man, after all.  
  
"You caught me, darling. I talked to Mrs. Bexley early this morning, actually," she began, with that smile in her voice that meant she was up to something. She was normally a very demure woman, Katherine Worthington, but she _did_ love to talk. And normally, it was quite endearing. However, he was feeling grouchy about his dream and lack of sleep. So he trudged down the stairs, still pulling at his pants, and clicked off the answering machine, then started to make his way to the kitchen as she babbled. "She told me some very interesting things about last night. First of all, I can't tell you how glad I am that you're using the box seats still, I knew you hadn't gone to see the last show, and I was rather worried, but I didn't want to bring it up because I know how you are about us keeping tabs on you."  
  
Warren pulled at his hair again, nodding automatically as she spoke, and started searching his small, but functional kitchen for his tea kettle. His mouth felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. God, mornings were horrible. "Yes, mother, I'm a grown--,"  
  
"--Man, I know dear," she finished his sentence, and continued. "But I was also surprised to hear that you had a _woman_ with you last night! A very pretty one, so Mrs. Bexley tells me. A gorgeous redhead called Jean Grey. Is that right, darling?"  
  
"That's right." He actually started smiling at that point. Whether because he'd located the tea kettle in the cupboard, or because she'd mentioned Jean was something he didn't really feel awake enough to explore at the moment.  
  
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line then.  
  
And Warren's smile grew even larger, as he filled the kettle up with water.  
  
"What's that sound? What are you doing, Warren?"  
  
"Making tea. And you?"  
  
She sighed... and then laughed. "You're in a good mood, aren't you?"  
  
"For 7:30 AM, yes, I am," he admitted. Normally he probably wouldn't have gotten up at all. Or even answered the phone until she'd called ten more times, throughout the entire day.  
  
"You must really like this girl."  
  
Warren furrowed his brow at that. He and his mother did _not_ hold these kinds of conversations. Correction, _he_ didn't hold these kinds of conversations. She was always trying to set him up with someone's daughter or niece... or whatever. He was always avoiding it. Which was another good reason not to answer the phone, really. "She's just a friend."  
  
"Mrs. Bexley said that the two of you looked _very_ close. And you make an adorable couple."  
  
He frowned, and put the water on to boil. "No, we were only trying to get a rise out of Karlie VanGuilder. She was trying to stake out her territory and intimidate Jean. We were just having a laugh. She's a friend."  
  
A disapproving clicking sound came from the other end of the phone now. "Well that explains the message from her father this morning canceling the meeting for Wednesday. Honestly Warren, you could be nice to the girl."  
  
"She's a horror," he said, bluntly, dropping into a chair at the kitchen table, and leaning forward on his elbow. "A complete nightmare."

"She's been in love with you since--"  
  
"She's been in love with the idea of marrying a Worthington, and I'm the only one," he growled, rather more gruffly than he'd meant to, pulling at his hair with his free hand.  
  
Another slight pause. "Well, dear, she wouldn't be the first."  
  
"No. And probably not the last," he sighed, suddenly feeling rather guilty. He may hold her at a distance. But it wasn't by choice. And he really did love his mother. "I'm sorry, mother... I haven't had any caffeine yet."  
  
A slight, tripping laugh now. And he felt a little better. "Watch those addictions, honey. You're turning into your father with his espresso runs every morning. The apple never falls far from the tree."  
  
Warren ruffled his wings in silent protest, but felt his shoulders, which he hadn't even noticed were tense, relax just a bit. "No, maybe it doesn't."  
  
"Anyway, about this Jean Grey. Who are her people?"  
  
Warren laughed at that, a true southern belle question. His mother had been raised in Virginia, and sometimes her upbringing as a debutante showed, even if her accent didn't. That question, or at least "who are his people?" was an infamous southern daddy one, if ever he'd heard one.  
  
"Her father is a history professor at Bard," he answered, sorting through all the information he'd acquired last night, with his sleep-deprived mind. "I'm not sure what her mother does. They're from Annandale-on-Hudson."  
  
There. That should do.  
  
"Oh, very nice," her voice was decidedly approving. "And how did you meet her?"  
  
"Is this really necessary?" He tried to keep the slight whine out of his voice that sometimes came back when he was dealing with his mother. Somehow, she always managed to bring out the spoiled brat in him. And he knew it. But it was hard to fight, really. "She's just a friend--"  
  
"Yes, it is necessary. You're my son, Warren, I want to know who this beautiful, charming, witty girl on your arm was."  
  
He raised an eyebrow, and actually smiled. "Old Alva said all that, did she?"  
  
"_Mrs. Bexley_," she was obviously trying to sound stern in her correction, and failing miserably, as that smile had crept into her voice once again, "said all that, yes."  
  
"I met her through some mutual friends. From back when the Spider Stone was taken." He tried to stick as close to the truth as he could. He always tried. Which was why he always ended up saying next to nothing, really.  
  
"Hmmm... and who are these friends?"  
  
"Mother..."  
  
"Fine, Warren, fine. Will you be seeing her again?"  
  
He stood now, and started pacing around the kitchen, circling the table loosely. God, she was making him crazy. Not that he hadn't expected it, of course... "If you mean will I be laying eyes on her again, then yes, undoubtedly. If you mean will I be taking her out on a date again, then no, because it wasn't a date in the first place. She's seeing someone."  
  
Ouch.  
  
_Relax, Worthington. You knew the deal when it began. You had fun, let it go._  
  
Easier thought than believed, of course. But there it was.  
  
"I doubt that whoever she's seeing is as handsome as you."  
  
He rolled his eyes skyward, and scratched at his bare stomach, mindlessly. "Actually he's a pretty good looking guy."  
  
Yet another pause. "You know, Warren, you worry us sometimes."  
  
He nearly choked, at that. And actually stopped his progress around the table to laugh aloud. "Because I said he's a good looking guy?"  
  
"Well, for years you refuse to date any girls we pick for you, you're so secretive about your dating habits--"  
  
"I don't _have_ dating habits," he choked out, through his laughter. Oh god, this was brilliant... just brilliant... of all the secrets he kept...  
  
"Well it's unnatural!" she insisted, now sounding rather indignant. "You're intelligent, thoughtful, sensitive, sweet, and the most handsome man I've ever seen. You should be dating."  
  
"Wonderful." He still couldn't quite shake the laughter, and was holding his stomach now, trying to repress it, as it obviously had her upset. "Next time I find a girl I'm attracted to, I'll be sure and tell her that my mother has a very high opinion of my assets. I'm sure that'll win her over in short order."  
  
She sighed now, directly into the phone. "Smart alec."

"I can't believe you two think I'm gay--" he laughed again, unable to hold it back any longer.  
  
"I didn't say that!" she very nearly shouted. But she immediately started laughing. "Oh god, alright, fine, we wondered, yes. But you know, darling... it _is_ nice to hear you laugh again. I don't think I've heard that in years."  
  
Slowly, he turned serious once again, and found himself nodding. At no one. "I know."  
  
"So even if she is _just a friend_, maybe you would consider--"  
  
"I have to go." He shook his head harder now, but knew he was still smiling. "My tea is ready."  
  
"I didn't hear it whistle."  
  
"It's a silent kettle, mother. I'll talk to you in a week or so, alright?"  
  
"If you see her again, do call."  
  
He sighed, and laughed. Just a little. "Fine, I'll call. I'll call if I see her boyfriend too, since he's such a good-looking--"  
  
"That'll do!" She laughed, obviously trying to restrain herself. And then she calmed down. "We do miss you, love."  
  
He paused, just for a second. And felt his smile turn sad. "I know. Miss you too."  
  
"Love you, honey."  
  
"Love you too. Tell dad the same, okay?"  
  
"Certainly."  
  
And with that, he hung up. And stared at the tea kettle. Wondering why the _hell_ the damn thing wasn't whistling yet.

**X X X X X**

Warren had been in a rather decent mood all morning, despite the early wake-up call. At least it had been a laugh. So much so that he'd felt like getting out, this afternoon, and just... walking.  
  
He couldn't stop thinking about her, as much as he knew he should. He just. couldn't. help. it. And it was pathetic and silly and he'd only _really_ known her for one day but god... that one day...  
  
He'd asked to be dropped off in a random location. All his nervous energy was building up, starting to make him feel almost like he was _vibrating_ inside. Normally, he would fly. He could always put on the Angel suit and go... but he wasn't in the mood to concentrate that hard. Life and death situations would probably not be the best idea. And in the middle of the day, he had nothing to do but work out. But he didn't _want_ to work out. He wanted to be with... people. It didn't matter if they were faceless people. He just needed... something to look at. Something to distract him.  
  
Something to keep him from seeing her face everywhere.  
  
_Just a crush_, he told himself, as he made his way through the streets. They weren't terribly crowded, it was going from a somewhat lazy Sunday morning into a somewhat lazy Sunday afternoon. Which was not to say that people weren't still making their New York beelines for exactly what they wanted-- no one in the city ever "went for strolls" like he was doing today. Every kind of conveyance here was with purpose "Need to go here... now need to go here..." And nothing in between really even got noticed. He often wondered if he could put a hundred dollar bill on the street, and it would just lay there for years, because no one ever noticed anything on their way-- just their objective, which they made the beeline for the moment they got off the bus, off the train, out of the car.  
  
He made himself slow down, look at the shops on the way. After all, not as if he was going anywhere. Being down in the city usually made him crazy. Thinking he'd be recognized, thinking someone would bump into him the wrong way, something bad would happen. And the view from above was just far more pleasant.  
  
But today... something about the crowd. Something about the people. The distraction.  
  
_Just a stupid, hopeless crush._  
  
But he knew he was protesting too loudly, as the Bard had said. He knew that it was something else. He had _felt_ something, with her. And sure, she probably hadn't felt it at all... but she at least felt comfortable with him. She'd touched him. She'd _talked_ to him. In his mind. God, it still blew him away, what it had been like...  
  
Pathetic. And no matter how many times he told himself that, he couldn't get her out of his head.  
  
He stopped, suddenly realizing where he'd ended up. And shook his head. This was the exact store that Jean had gotten the dress (_oh god, the dress..._) last night. God... could he possibly be a little more creepy about this obsession?  
  
Actually... he cocked his head and looked through the window, however. Saw the clerk standing by the jewelry counter. And smiled. The emeralds.  
  
On an impulse, he pushed the door open, at once mocking himself for the sheer obsessiveness of what he was doing, and feeling his stomach clench with some kind of nervousness. As if he'd find her here. As if some kind of shade of her would remain. Not that he was in here because of that, per se.  
  
In fact, he wasn't sure _why_ he was here, exactly.  
  
But he continued to the back of the little shop, to the glass counter, and found the pendant from last night immediately. The one he'd been looking at while she'd tried on her dresses.  
  
God. That dress.  
  
"Can I help you, sir?" the blonde salesclerk asked, rather too politely.  
  
He glanced up at her, noticed that this was not the same girl from last night with quite a lot of relief. The last thing he needed was the rest of the city knowing that he was desperate. Stalking a shade of a girl he couldn't have.  
  
Not that they'd know that, just from seeing him in here... but that wasn't the point.  
  
"Can you show me this one, please?" He pointed out the flower pendant. Emeralds in the four outlying flowers and diamond center, platinum vines twining all around it so that it had an almost squarish-shape, over-all young-looking, not like most of the emeralds his mother had. She loved them, of course. And honestly, he did too. Much nicer than cold diamonds, any day.  
  
And god, _so_ green.  
  
The girl smiled at him now, and he briefly wondered if she knew who he was. She was acting normal, which was lovely. Maybe she'd only just moved here, maybe she was one of the blessed ones in this city who didn't care about society pages or gossip. She stooped down to pull out the pendant, and when she came back up, said, "A gift?"  
  
He looked down, avoiding her questioning brown eyes. Nice eyes, yes. Large and brown. But... not like hers. Not even close.  
  
He held the pendant up to the light, watched it sparkle. The cut was more complicated than he'd expected a round to be, the color a deep, dark, clear grass green. The _exact. same. green. _And the diamond was nice too, he figured. But that wasn't the part he liked. Not at all. "Yes," he said, after a moment. "A gift."  
  
_A gift I'll never give anyone. Maybe a gift for myself. God, what the **hell** am I doing?_  
  
"She'll love it, I'm sure."  
  
He looked back at her now, saw her still smiling. With surprising sincerity.  
  
Obviously not from around here.  
  
He smiled back, and handed the box to her. "I'll take it."  
  
It was stupid, ridiculous, childish. Every business instinct in him rebelled against this fantastic action, every pragmatic protocol in his head told him he was completely mad for even entertaining _thoughts_ about her, let alone randomly buying gifts for her shade.  
  
But that part of him, he found, was not in control on this issue. Which was odd, considering that it had been in control for the past few years, without question. It was the side of him that had kept him going, despite his desperation, loneliness, confusion. The businessman.  
  
Something else, however, seemed to have awakened last night. Some part of him he hadn't heard from in years.  
  
And apparently, he could deny it only so far.  
  
Warren walked out of the boutique, onto the New York street. Sunday morning church bells were ringing as the congregation spilled into the streets, echoing off the buildings, making the entire block into a giant open cathedral. He looked up, like a tourist, putting the little black velvet box carefully into his jacket pocket, then stuffing his hands inside the pockets of his khakis. Just walking.  
  
And he felt a little better, really. Just a little.

* * *


	6. Chapter 3

_**Chapter 3**_

_Week 1: Tuesday_

Three days now, since he'd seen Jean in the museum. Almost to the hour. And he sat at his desk, at home, in a tank top and jeans, scratching his head, wings twitching intermittently, leaning forward on his elbows over a giant textbook.  
  
He was having severe trouble concentrating, to say the very least. He'd tried to convince himself that it had to do with the fact that he simply didn't understand the medical research Genco, one of their subsidiaries, was taking part in. And that was what he'd been poring over for the past two days. But the theory didn't hold much water, since he knew damn well he was distracted by her.  
  
Which was amusing, since she obviously had classes and training and five million other things to do.  
  
Warren Worthington had a lot to do too, of course. Just nothing that was anywhere near as interesting as thinking of her.  
  
He sighed aloud, as he had a tendency to do when he was at home. Never in the office. But certainly at home. And on impulse, reached for his phone.  
  
What the hell, right? Not as if it had been a date, and he had to wait an acceptable amount of time before opening contact. Anyhow, she'd wanted to know what his mother would say about their night on the town...  
  
Yeah. What the hell.  
  
He flipped the tiny silver phone open, and began to type out a message for her.  
  
_Talked to mother. She says, "Thank god, you're not gay." Should I be worried?_  
  
That made him smile, for a moment. Which was rather nice... and he hit send, then put the phone back on the desk. And pretended to read about stem-cells.  
  
But it was too quiet. And he was even more restless now than before he'd touched the phone. So he reached for his remote, and clicked on the CD player. Apparently he'd been listening to Coldplay last. Which would work.  
  
... Still too quiet. And too bright. Why was every light in the goddamn apartment on, anyhow? He got up, running his hand through his hair, clutching at it nervously, to turn off some lights. And realized that his stomach felt odd.  
  
Maybe he needed some Sprite or something to calm it...

**X**

Curled up at one end of a plush sofa in the surprisingly empty Student Center, Jean sat with her study partner, Christy Adams, discussing the pros and cons of choosing one topic over another for their first big project.

Christy had recognized Jean the first day of class - not as Jean Grey, mutant, but as Jean Grey from Oxford Day School in Annandale-on-Hudson. Attending the private school for just first and second grades, Christy had very few memories of the school, but had remembered the redhead as the first girl to befriend her. She had been thrilled to see Jean again, and the two girls had hit it off right away. Christy, Jean was pleased to discover, couldn't care less that her old friend was a mutant. In fact, Christy found it rather exciting. They had many of the same classes, and gravitated toward each other for all group assignments, such as the psychology project that was their current topic of discussion.

Christy twirled a lock of curly brown hair around her finger and glanced over at Jean. "So whaddya think? Cognitive process or psychopathology?"

"Psychopathology would be more interesting, I think," Jean told her friend, munching on a huge chocolate chip muffin. "I know some people personally that we could use as case studies."

Laughing, Christy reached over and broke off a piece of the muffin. "They can't be as bad as you say they are. Half the time I'm convinced you're making these people up," she smirked.

Jean laughed and shook her head. "You have no idea. The stories, Christy, the stories..."

But before she could continue, a faint beeping drew her attention to her book bag. Jean shot her friend an apologetic look and pulled out her cell phone, which was lighting up to get her attention.

_You have 1 new text message,_ the screen read.

After reading the short message, Jean collapsed against the back of the couch in a fit of laughter. Oh god, that was too funny.

Christy watched Jean cautiously, waiting all of 5 seconds before reaching over and grabbing the phone out of the other girl's hand. The brunette's brow furrowed. "What the hell?"

Finally Jean got her laughter under control enough to be able to speak. "That's Warren, a friend of mine," she explained, unable to stop grinning. "We went to the theater together Saturday night."

"Wait," Christy interrupted, clearly confused, "I thought you were dating some guy named Scott?"

"I am. Warren's a friend."

"Hmmm," the other girl said, tossing Jean the cell phone before sitting back and crossing her arms, clearly unconvinced. "'Cause everyone's face lights up like that for their _friends_."

Rolling her eyes, Jean continued. "Long story short, Warren doesn't go out much, and almost never goes out on a date unless it's a set-up. So his mother must have gotten the report that he'd be seen out with a girl, and it must have made her very happy."

"_Is_ he gay?"

Jean laughed again. "No, not at all. He's just..." she trailed off, not quite sure how to explain without revealing the real reason why he doesn't get out. Finally she shrugged. "He just doesn't like being around a lot of people."

"What's wrong with him?" The question was blunt and straightforward, and completely understandable. Jean couldn't help but laugh.

"You mean other than being handsome, cultured, intelligent, sweet, funny, and rich? Absolutely nothing."

Christy's mouth opened but she didn't say anything for a minute. Finally she shut it, apparently deciding it best not to say anything after all.

Jean took the opportunity to reply to Warren's message.

_Your mother sounds hilarious! Y'know, I'm sure if you dated Karlie for a while you'd consider switching teams._

**X**

The Sprite wasn't really helping.  
  
Of course, chugging it from the bottle was probably a bad idea anyhow.  
  
Really, he didn't partake in those kinds of activities too often. His mother had taught him better than that... but when he'd lived alone for this long, some things definitely started to slip.  
  
And he still felt nervous.  
  
He toted the bottle, swinging between two of his fingers, back toward the desk, and noticed that his phone was flashing.  
  
And smiled. Hey, what do you know. She'd actually sent a message back!  
  
He tried very hard not to speed up, as his heart jumped into his throat. But failed, miserably. He landed back in his chair with a rather unbecoming thump, wings tucking up to form a sort of cradle for him, automatically, and leaned back in them as he swiped his phone from the desk. The two-liter of Sprite went into its place, and he grinned as he saw the outer window, lit up.  
  
_You have 1 new message  
from Jean_  
  
He flipped the phone open, and went to his mailbox to read it. And laughed out loud, when he saw her reply.  
  
The laugh echoed over the rather calm music playing in the background, up into his loft bedroom. But for once, it didn't seem out of place or disturbing, as anything inordinately loud so often did in huge, empty apartment.  
  
Instead, it seemed just about right.  
  
He shook his head, covering his mouth for a moment, then smoothing his face self-consciously, feeling the rough stubble he'd uncharacteristically allowed to grow there today. He'd been in the house all day, going over piles and piles of this genetic research nonsense...  
  
Not that it was nonsense, but to him, it might as well have been. In his state.  
  
He immediately punched out a message to her. _Karlie would be enough to turn Wolverine, I think. Nice to know I don't just send out that vibe, though. How's your day?_  
  
And he stared at it for a few minutes. He couldn't send it right away, right? That was desperate...  
  
Well... not as if she was a prospect. Just a friend. And, if he'd had friends, he would text message them freely, right? So technically, he could send this message right now, and that was definitely acceptable.  
  
Jesus. This wasn't brain surgery.  
  
He hit the send button.  
  
And stared.  
  
This music was far too quiet. He hit the changer button, and listened as it clicked over. Harry Connick Jr. He leaned back into his wings, pushing the chair backwards, and pulled his book into his lap, throwing his legs up onto the desk. His wings curved around his arms, and he pretended to read.  
  
But he wasn't fooling himself, today.

**X**

The phone beeped again and Jean smiled, knowing it would be another message from Warren. But Christy snatched the small silver device from the cushion next to Jean before the other girl had a chance to pick it up. "Who the hell's Karlie and what's a Wolverine? And turn it _what_?"  
  
"What?" Jean laughed, reaching over and taking the phone. She read the message and grinned. "Karlie is this horrible girl whose family has been trying to marry off to Warren. We ran into her at the show, and she was... unimpressed to see Warren with me. So we messed with her a bit. And Wolverine is the code name of one of the instructors at the Institute, Logan. He's a real manly man, I guess is the best way to describe him. And Warren thinks that Karlie's such a nightmare that she'd be enough to turn anyone, including Logan, gay."  
  
"Warren knows your friends at the Institute?"  
  
Jean paused, considering how to handle that question. Sticking as close to the truth as possible seemed the best course of action. "A mutant broke into his parents' estate a while back and stole an artifact. He assumed the best way to track down a mutant thief was with a team of mutant super heroes," Jean said, rolling her eyes to show her annoyance with the label, and Christy laughed. "I was part of the group that went after the artifact. So that's how Warren and I met, and that's why he knows the others at the Institute."  
  
The brunette nodded, curls bobbing with the motion. "Makes sense. Is he a mutant, too?"  
  
"Why would you wonder that?" Jean asked, trying to sound casual.  
  
Christy shrugged. "I dunno. Seemed a logical question to ask, considering he knew about you guys to ask for your help."  
  
Shit. She was right. But... "That would be like people assuming you were a mutant because we're friends," she said, trying to avoid answering the question.  
  
"Good point," Christy conceded, blushing a little bit in embarrassment. "Sorry."  
  
"Hey, don't worry about it." Jean smiled reassuringly before starting to type out her reply to Warren's message, pleased that she'd been able to dodge the question. She hated the idea of lying to her friend. But it wasn't her secret, not her lie. And she would respect Warren's wishes, even if she disagreed with them.  
  
_Did I say anything about you not giving off a gay vibe? I'm on a break. Sitting in the Student Center with a friend discussing our psych project (we've now moved on to your questionable sexual orientation). You're a very welcome distraction!_  
  
Christy was reading over Jean's shoulder as she typed out the message. "You're so flirting with him."  
  
"I am not," Jean chuckled. "I'm teasing him, there's a difference."  
  
"Hmmm-hmmm," Christy responded, once again unconvinced.  
  
"Ok, so maybe I am a little," she admitted, punching the send button. "We're friends, it's harmless."  
  
"Right," the other girl chuffed out a laugh. Then she sat back and waited for the mysterious Warren to respond to her friend's message.

**X**

Warren nearly jumped when his phone beeped and lit up.  
  
Not that he hadn't been waiting for it. Just that...  
  
He nearly jumped, was all.  
  
Of course, he pondered, as he let his feet fall off the desk and leaned forward to take his phone off the desk, he hadn't really _known_ that she'd text him back. He'd just _wanted_ her to. Expectations were foolish, after all. Not something you place on a friend. Right... not going there. Obviously. He leaned over his lap, resting his elbows on the book as his body practically curled around the phone, looking down at it as he flipped it open.  
  
And then, he laughed aloud again. His wings twitched with his amusement, and he let them stretch out now, since they'd been curved around him for a few minutes, waiting. He felt the thin, taut muscles creaking just a little, felt the rush of blood through the sensitive skin under his feathers. Took a deep breath, filling his lungs up, trying to slow his heart down.  
  
She was too wonderful. Just brilliant.  
  
Still grinning stupidly, and not caring in the least, he started to type out his response. _Suddenly having flashes of my "questionable sexuality" turning into your psych project... Let me know if you need interviews for your write up-- the distraction would be welcome here too._  
  
Warren shook his head, hardly believing that he was joking around with someone like this...  
  
But with Jean, it was pretty easy. To be serious or ridiculous. It didn't matter. She was... Jean.

**X**

Jean kept an anxious eye on her phone while trying very hard to make it seem like she wasn't watching it all. But she was really hoping that Warren would message her back. Soon. She was having fun, and it _was_ a welcome distraction.  
  
"You're so not fooling anyone."  
  
Cocking her head at Christy, Jean played dumb. "What are you talking about?"  
  
The other girl snorted. "As if you're that stupid. You're just waiting for your phone to light up again. It's written all over your face."  
  
"So? He's fun," Jean replied with a shrug, glancing at the phone before she could stop herself.  
  
"See! You're literally sitting by the phone waiting for him to 'call'," Christy crowed and pointed at her triumphantly.  
  
"I am _not_," Jean denied, shaking her head so that her hair fell down in front of her face. At that moment, the phone jumped to life. Both girls dove for it, but this time Jean got it first. Laughing, unable to speak, after reading the text, Jean held the phone out for Christy to see.  
  
"Ooooh, could we?" Christy asked with a grin. "I have a feeling it would be much more interesting than any of the other subjects. Especially if he's as cute as you say he is."  
  
"Oh, he is, trust me," Jean replied with a smile as she started replying to the message.  
  
_That's actually a fantastic idea, and very tempting! But maybe I'll just wait to use you as my case study for Abnormal Psych... paranoid recluse, and all that. So what are you up to that's so tedious you need a distraction?_  
  
Jean hit "send" with the grin still on her face.

**X**

The moment he pressed send, his phone rang.  
  
Warren stood up, eyeing the thing suspiciously. The phone never rang, unless it was his parents. And they'd already called this week. So they really ought not to be bothering him until the weekend, at least...  
  
He stood and padded over to the end table, where the offending piece of technology lay, and picked the thing up off its cradle so he could see the caller ID panel.  
  
_Van Guilder_  
  
He very nearly choked, he laughed so suddenly, and so hard.  
  
Struggling with his own laughter, he put the phone back down, never having answered it, and turned his back on it, wings fluttering slightly, then returning to their usual restful state, tucked up at his back. Good god... what timing. And to think, normally, he would've sighed at the sight of that name on his ID screen...  
  
Today he was laughing.  
  
Amazing.  
  
_Beep_  
  
"Warren...," a shrill voice that nearly wiped the grin off his face said. "I know you're home. You don't go anywhere."  
  
That made him smirk, however. A real, genuine, _fuck you_ smirk.  
  
Hadn't had one of those in ages, really. But he kept replaying Jean tripping the girl with her TK over and over in his head. And he couldn't help but laugh aloud again.  
  
He returned to his desk at the moment he heard the irritated girl on the phone hang up, and silently grumbled a curse under his breath that his mother had given Blondzilla, as he remembered Jean once referring to her on the ride home, his number. But he smiled again when he saw that the phone was lit up. And the message was from Jean.  
  
Leaning back on the desk, half-sitting, and crossing his legs at the ankles, he swiped the phone up and flipped it open. And his grin grew even wider. He started typing instantly, no longer bothered by the need to "wait a few minutes." This was too funny to wait on.  
  
_From "questionable sexuality" to "abnormal psych." I'm moving up in the world! Researching Genco projects we're invested in. It's riveting. Really. Worthington Industries: King of the Glamorous Investment._  
  
With that, he put the phone back down, and picked up his remote again, switching CDs again. This wasn't what he wanted at all... too... grown up.  
  
There. Now that he'd mocked his own pursuits, he actually felt better about them. And in the mood for...  
  
Air. Not exactly upbeat... but French techno couldn't be all bad.

**X**

A matter of moments after sending her message, Warren had replied back. This time her stomach fluttered a little as the gentle tones from her phone. Christy slid across the couch to read over Jean's shoulder as the message appeared. Jean shook her head and grinned, typing her reply right away.  
  
_If you consider that upward mobility, you're in even worse shape than I thought. Genco, hmm? What kind of projects? And if you're so unimpressed with WI's current investments, couldn't you just... change some of them? There have to be some perks to being CEO._  
  
"Whoa whoa whoa," Christy waved her hand in the air, which stopped Jean from sending the message. "He's CEO? Of _Worthington Industries_? They're huge! How old is this guy for godsake?"  
  
"He's 20. He took over the role of CEO for his father when his parents moved to London," Jean explained, trying to not let her amusement at the other girl's reaction show. "It's his family's business."  
  
Christy blinked once, slowly, then looked at Jean in disbelief. "You're talking about Warren _Worthington_? The _third_? Jesus Christ, Jean! He's one of the most eligible bachelors in the _country_!"  
  
Feigning disinterest, Jean shrugged. "So?"  
  
"So? _So?_ Are you serious?"  
  
"Apparently, because I just don't see what the big deal is."  
  
Shaking her head, Christy sighed. "Never mind."  
  
Hitting the send button, Jean sat back to wait for his reply, not even bothering to pretend anymore.

**X**

Warren wasn't even trying to do anything else to pass the time now. He was just waiting.  
  
And listening to Air. Which was really quite relaxing, and amusing, all at once. Not so bad. He'd had the album since he was fourteen, actually... the year his wings had... well, sprouted.  
  
He looked at the ground, at the shadow he cast, stretched long from the halogen lamp near his desk, which shot most of its light straight upward and out. It didn't strike him as odd, anymore, the way if he lifted his wings just so, he looked so very inhuman, as a shadow. He didn't really think of himself as human being, per se, most of the time. Of course, he knew he was... but he was used to being invisible, really. Outside of humanity. Something other that they'd never accept. And therefore, he stayed invisible.  
  
Heh. Never really thought of it like that before. Intentional invisibility. Brilliant.  
  
His phone beeped soon, however, and he blinked for just a moment, then smiled again, flipping the thing open without even looking at the outside. He knew who it was from, after all.  
  
And god... god she was hilarious. The previous moments' serious consideration was washed away as he laughed again, shaking his head and raking a hand through his decidedly unruly blonde hair. Some strange instinct in him welled up, and he had a rather inappropriate urge to send her back a message about how he clearly needed professional help for the terrible shape he was in, and she really ought to come fix him.  
  
But he managed to restrain it. Barely. It as horribly inappropriate, after all. Even if it was true. Instead, he sent, _I'm clearly in terrible shape. However, I've been much worse, and have you to thank for the step up. Perhaps I should invest in Blonde-Away, or Prada-be-Gone, instead?_  
  
He'd answer her questions about Genco eventually... but it was complicated and his phone only allowed 200 characters per message, after all.  
  
Hell, maybe she'd even help him...  
  
No. She was busy. Hell, this little... whatever they were doing would probably have to end soon anyhow.  
  
But it was nice while it lasted. Definitely nice.

**X**

Both Christy and Jean jumped when the phone beeped, and they quickly read the message. Jean laughed, then re-read the message and smiled softly, her cheeks growing slightly warm.  
  
"What does he mean, he has you to thank for the step up?" Christy asked, eyeing her friend, not missing the faint blush on the redhead's cheeks.  
  
"Oh, he's just being stupid," Jean muttered, still clearly pleased with his comment.  
  
_I think I must have found you just in time, then. There's still hope! And how about Bitch Buster (Now with whine retardants!)?_  
  
"Do I even want to know about the Blonde-Away and Prada-be-Gone?"  
  
"Karlie."  
  
"Ah." Christy shook her head, chuckling. "You two are weird."  
  
Jean offered a cheeky grin and hit send. "That's why we get along so well."

**X**

Warren pushed off the desk, and sat back down in the chair, tucking his wings back up again, shaking his head. She just brought out something in him... something he hadn't felt in years. He used to have a sense of humor. He used to joke around with his buddies on the soccer team. He used to... play.  
  
Felt good to do it again. Really damn good. He'd needed it for a long time, and he'd known it, of course. He'd just never really thought he'd find it.  
  
Not that it meant that it was anything. Well, no... it _was_ something. It was what having friends meant. Obviously.  
  
And this friend happened to be an extremely intelligent, funny, attractive young woman. Whom he most definitely had a crush on.  
  
But so long as he acknowledged the futility of said crush... a little flirting was harmless. Scott was a friend, of course, and Warren honestly didn't mean anything by his flirting-- even if he did, it wouldn't have flown. So it was just that, harmless.  
  
Still... she'd been working before he'd distracted her. Perhaps he'd better... let her go. So she wasn't forced to "ditch" him.  
  
Warren wasn't certain he'd ever been "ditched" before, properly. But he didn't really feel the need to find out what that would be like.  
  
His phone beeped quietly a moment after the thought crossed his mind, however, and he picked it up to read the message, again laughing aloud. Where on earth did she come up with these things....  
  
_The Bitch Buster,_ he typed, somewhat laboriously. _I'm sold. My father will be thrilled-- perhaps it will help with some of his other associates as well. I'd better let you get back to work, however, and start researching the whine retardant formulas. I'll plague you more when I've done that._  
  
There... not so bad, really.  
  
He smiled to himself, hoping she wouldn't mind his plaguing her any more than she'd said the other night... and hit send.

**X**

After Jean had sent the last message, Christy had noticed the time. They really needed to start thinking about getting to their next class. So the two girls were slowly collecting their things, packing away books and throwing out their trash when Jean's phone lit up and beeped again.  
  
Jean tried to hide her disappointment that he was ending their little text message exchange, even though she herself would have had to end things with her next message. Christy peered at the small screen and laughed.  
  
"Plaguing you. Riiiight," the brunette said, drawing out the last word and smirking at Jean. "Because it's obvious you'd rather not talk to him. He's a total pest."  
  
Lightly swatting her friend's arm, Jean chuckled. "I have to admit, it's hardly a bad thing, is it? He's really entertaining."  
  
Christy raised an eyebrow at that and the smirk widened. But she said nothing.  
  
_We have to get to class, anyway. Work on that whine retardants research, and report back to me with the results. And feel free to plague me anytime. I promise to return the favor. You know where to find me!_  
  
"You're so encouraging him," Christy accused.  
  
"Sure I am. I want him to know he's not bugging me. He worries too much about things like that," Jean explained, pushing the send button then turning the phone off before putting it back into her bag.  
  
"Hmmm-hmmmm." Christy looked at her friend for a moment, trying to decide who Jean thought she was fooling - Christy, or herself.  
  
Jean slugged her bag over her shoulder and stood. "Ready?"  
  
The brunette nodded, standing and hauling her own bag onto her shoulder. "Let's go. And while we're walking, I want you tell me _everything_ that happened while you were out with this guy the other night."

**X X X X X**

_Week 1: Thursday_

If it were physically possible for someone to die of boredom, Jean was sure she'd be six feet under by now.  
  
While in theory her mythology class should have been interesting, the idiot grad student leading the lecture today had all the charisma of a potato. Glancing around the giant lecture hall, Jean noticed that several of the students had found other ways of entertaining themselves. Some were plugged into headphones, others were playing video games, and still others were typing away on their laptops or PDAs.  
  
Which gave Jean an idea.  
  
Reaching into her bag, she withdrew her cell phone from her bag and turned off the ringer, setting it to vibrate. With one last look around her, to make sure she wasn't attracting any undue attention, she set to work typing a simple two word message and pressed send: _Save me!_

**X**

Could the man possibly make this any more boring?  
  
Charts and graphs were just boring, was the thing. And Warren tried to be interested, of course. Really, truly tried. But the data was always skewed with these researchers-- he knew how statistics worked from his years of trial by fire with Worthington Ind., and he wasn't buying whatever this man was selling. Not at all.  
  
However, he had to sit, and listen. Politely.  
  
So... he did.  
  
But he simply couldn't make himself enjoy it. It was like... like Ross Perot without the entertaining accent.  
  
Warren suppressed a sigh, and an urge to stare out the window at the city that stretched below him. God, this was horrible. He really, _really_ just needed to fly.  
  
A sudden buzzing in his pocket snapped him out of his reverie, however, and he slid his phone discreetly out. And grinned.  
  
His eyes darted up to the droning man and his pie chart, and then back down to the message. Two words that very nearly made him laugh in the middle of Chart Man's exposition. God... he hadn't spoken to her at all yesterday. He'd _wanted_ to, of course, but was still wary of "bothering" her. She had a life, friends. It was hardly up to her to bear the burden of his reclusive nature, after all.  
  
But if she didn't seem to mind today...  
  
Immediately, he typed back. _I'd love to, if I didn't need saving myself. Desperate to fly, chained in a meeting. I take it your day is about the same?_  
  
When he looked up, no one had even glanced in his direction. And that had taken him quite a few minutes to type out. Looked like he was in the clear for some back and forth, if she was.

**X**

Stifling a yawn, Jean flipped a page in her text book, (im)patiently waiting to see if Warren would message her back. She'd missed talking with him yesterday, and would have messaged him if her day hadn't been beyond hectic. But today, things were looking much less... intensive for her.  
  
After several long minutes, during which she'd started to assume that his phone was off or that he was busy, the phone vibrated and lit up in her hand. Jean bit her lip to keep from smiling too widely. The smile won, however briefly, when she read the message. She glanced around, making sure the TA wasn't paying attention to her, and started typing out her reply.  
  
_I'm in a mind-numbingly boring lecture, and I'm considering lobotomizing myself as an escape. But flying sounds like an even better option. So go. Now. Escape for the both of us. Be free!_  
  
Send was pressed, and Jean went back to pretending to pay attention to the lecture.

**X**

Warren had to try even harder not to laugh than last time when he saw what was in his text inbox. Good god, she _must_ be bored.  
  
And she was even more fantastic when bored, apparently.  
  
Trying very hard to repress his grin, and feeling like the anti-social child who'd brought his Game-Boy to the family reunion, he proceeded to type out a response. _We're resourceful people, surely we can think of something to entertain us and still maintain our civilized exteriors. Talk your teacher into having class outside?_

**X**

Jean smirked and shook her head slightly at Warren's message. She started typing her reply immediately, no longer caring if anyone was watching her. Things had finally become interesting for her this afternoon.  
  
_Resourceful indeed, but severely limited by my ethics, I'm afraid. Damn things get in the way at the most inconvenient times. Moving a class of 200 outside, hmm? I don't think my powers of persuasion are that finely honed._

**X**

Warren shook his head slightly as he saw the message waiting in his inbox. He'd had to wait a moment, since his attention had actually been required for something. Something unimportant, but something they thought the CEO should respond to. He'd nodded a lot, and they'd left him alone, and he'd finally been able to pull his phone out of his pocket.  
  
And he really was unconvinced that she couldn't talk her professor into moving 200 kids outside. She was really just that good, and he knew it.  
  
_True, ethics can be difficult at times, but if it's for the greater good of the student body, what can you do? You strike me as the kind of girl who knows how to get what she wants._

**X**

Jean waited longer than before for Warren to reply, and she had begun to grow restless. Where was her attention span today? She kept glancing from the rambling legume at the front of the lecture hall to the small silver phone in her hand. After a few minutes she was tempted to turn the phone off and then on again, just to make sure it was working and receiving messages. But just as her thumb reached for the power button, the display lit up, causing Jean to nearly jump in surprise.  
  
Reading the message, she felt one of her eyebrows arch high. What the hell did he mean by _that_?  
  
_I'm not sure I like what you're implying. Makes me sound like some kind of manipulative spoiled brat. Ouch. Really, Warren, ouch._  
  
She punched the send button rather more harshly than usual, and waited for Warren to explain his way out of this one.

**X**

His phone vibrated, and Warren grinned. He hadn't even bothered to put it away this time. He felt an awful lot like the kid passing notes in class... and he liked it.  
  
He had _always_ been the kid who got in trouble for that kind of thing, when he was younger. And he'd had a damn fun childhood.  
  
Flipping the phone open... his eyebrows suddenly shot upward. Oh yeah, she was pissed. He tried to think of what he'd sent her last, and couldn't think of anything particularly offensive... he quite liked women who could get what they wanted. In fact, people, in general, who were afraid to ask for and take what they deserved, irritated him to no end.  
  
It was actually... rather cute, that she was annoyed with him for it, however. Somehow.  
  
Perhaps if he explained. _Didn't mean it that way at all, Jean. It's important to be assertive, and to know what you want-- and it's not the same as being "bratty."_  
  
He re-read the message... and nodded. Sure, it sounded like he was explaining some principle of economics... but no matter how cute he imagined she'd be if she was pissed off, he still didn't want her thinking that he could ever find anything wrong with her. Bratty, no. Accomplished, honest, and motivated, yes.  
  
She'd understand, of course.

**X**

Annoyance simmering for the few moments it took for Warren to reply, Jean tried very hard to concentrate on the lecture. And failed miserably. When her phone jumped to life, she read his message... and very nearly tossed the damn thing across the lecture hall.  
  
_Assertive_.  
  
He'd called her _assertive_.  
  
That son of a bitch...  
  
_So now I'm ASSERTIVE?? By society's standards, that means I'm a class A raving bitch. Wow. Thank you very much. Really. I appreciate it._

**X**

Admittedly, he was a little nervous, waiting for her response. He really hadn't meant to make her angry, and even if it was cute, he wasn't so secure in their newfound friendship that he ought to be pissing her off just for the fun of it.  
  
Not that he would. Just that... well it was amusing. Because he really never would've expected anyone to take what he'd said about being persuasive in a _bad_ way... which only went to show how long it'd been since he'd dealt with a woman, other than his mother, who was used to him being all...  
  
Donald Trump.  
  
His phone vibrated rather quickly, this time, and he flipped it open. And his jaw nearly dropped.  
  
First, he was concerned. Hm, now she was _really_ angry...  
  
But... okay, it was still funny. Because honestly, of all the post-feminist ideologies he really should've been aware of... he really shouldn't have used that word. In his mind, of course, it was a positive word. A word that meant she was a "go-getter." Someone he'd want around him, someone he'd want backing him up, someone he'd be comfortable with. Not some whiney, spineless...  
  
Ha! And she thought...  
  
Ha-ha!  
  
Okay, it was _really_ funny, because she was... _such_ a woman. And, of course, he was being _such_ a thoughtless, stereotypical man...  
  
Right. Now he was having trouble not laughing in the middle of the meeting.  
  
Apologies were in order, of course. But he was still laughing, albeit silently. And praying she would forgive him, naturally.  
  
_I'm so thoughtless. You know me, not the best with words-- definitely didn't mean it to sound like I was calling you a "bitch." Not by a long shot. Give the eternal businessman a chance to apologize?_

**X**

Jean was still positively steaming by the time her phone vibrated to signify Warren's incoming text message. She wasn't quite sure she wanted to see what he had to say, but she really _did_.  
  
Her jaw set when she read his reply, however. _Not good enough, Worthington._ Though a part of her begged for Jean to accept the apology and be done with it, today it was her temper that won out. Warren had pissed her off, and it would take more than that for her to forget it.  
  
Positioning the phone just-so under the desk, Jean raised her middle finger at the display and clicked the picture. Viewing the image, it was off-center and blurry. She cursed silently and tried again, this time with success. It was perfect.  
  
The picture was the only reply she sent him.

**X**

This time, Warren actually started to laugh.  
  
Every head in the meeting-room turned toward him, of course, and he coughed, quickly, to cover it up. And just... kept his hand over his mouth. Because oh good god...  
  
She was fantastic.  
  
Whether or not she'd deign to speak to him again was, of course, totally up in the air. But that really wouldn't detract from how fantastic she was, whether she did or didn't.  
  
He desperately hoped that she would, naturally. But the image on his phone of her middle finger telling him exactly what he could do with his apology was just...  
  
Was it wrong that it only made her more attractive?  
  
Probably. But hell, he'd been trying to deny it all week, and failing miserably. Why start now? _My god, you're wonderful. Would you consider speaking to me again if I confessed all my sins and begged forgiveness? On my knees?_  
  
He looked at the message a moment, before sending it. He realized, of course, that if she really did hate him now, and the breach he'd created with his CEO language was simply irreparable, he would only be asking to get slapped the next time he saw her.  
  
But... something in him, something only she'd brought out in the past six years or so... told him to go ahead and press send.  
  
Because he would beg, if she wanted.  
  
And, he wasn't afraid to admit to himself, he'd doubtless like it quite a lot.

**X**

Drumming her fingers on her knee, Jean debated turning her phone off and ignoring any possible reply Warren might send. She wasn't altogether sure he'd respond at all to be honest, and that made her even angrier. So she waited.  
  
When the phone vibrated its alert, Jean took a deep, calming breath before reading the message. And despite her anger, her lips twitched into a smile before she could force it down. She almost laughed, in fact, but managed to control that impulse. And instead of typing her reply right away, she put the phone back in her bag.  
  
She had a lecture to listen to, after all.  
  
And it would serve the bastard right to squirm for a little bit.  
  
Almost half an hour later, class broke up, and Jean pulled her phone back out. She'd been contemplating her response throughout the remainder of the lecture, and started to type.  
  
_I'll consider your proposal. I suggest you brush up on your groveling skills, just in case you require them in the near future._  
  
After hitting the send button, this time she _did_ turn off the phone before slipping it into her bag. Jean gathered her books together, and headed toward her next class, thinking about the begging that had been promised her.  
  
She couldn't wipe the smirk off her face for the rest of the day.

**X**

Warren tried very hard not to squirm.  
  
But it had been a half hour, and still no response from Jean, after he'd replied to her singularly eloquent imagery. And really... he was starting to worry. He wasn't quite sure why he'd thought he could simply apologize and talk his way out of things-- it truly had been an accident. Granted, her response had made him laugh, but he did feel... a _little_ bad, for being such a thoughtless idiot.  
  
He _really_ should've known better...  
  
The thought made him both smile, and want to groan aloud at his own stupidity. But then, he also thought it served him right, for being such a businessman all the time. If he was going to be friends with Jean, he'd have to learn. Learn how to talk to a woman all over again.  
  
He could do that.  
  
Assuming she sent him a message back. Because if she didn't...  
  
The meeting was about to break up, and he suddenly felt his phone vibrate. With an almost overwhelming sense of relief, he flipped his phone open... and smiled.  
  
In truth, he already knew he'd give her anything she asked for. And if groveling would help... he was more than willing to get down on his knees and beg.  
  
He just wished the prospect wasn't... _quite_ so exciting. It was _supposed_ to be a punishment, after all.  
  
Warren, however, spent the rest of his day grinning.

* * *

To our fabulous reviewers:

_Furygrrl:_ Good lord, you're too kind. Your compliments on the characters mean a lot-- Jen's Jean is the first one I've ever really empathized with. Aside from mine, who I've been told isn't nearly nice enough. I, personally, love that same balance you mentioned in her-- she's sweet, but she's trouble. And Warren could use a little of both. I do worry sometimes about the characterization of Angel, simply because Evo Warren is so much more... quiet and careful than pre-Apoc 616 Warren. As for Scott, Warren would love to get rid of him too. Alas, he's there to stay. /sigh. Well... for awhile anyhow. I love Scott, personally... but that doesn't mean I don't want Warren to "win." –Beaubier

_Kate:_ Thanks! Hope I'll be able to convert you into a Jean fan by the time the story is over. –Jen

_CPBaker12:_ Wow, thank you so much! It's so nice to know that we're able to make Warren and Jean as real to the readers as they are in our heads. Because god knows they're real in our heads. In fact, they very rarely shut up. Ah, the things we do for the characters we love! Anyway, glad you're enjoying! –Jen

_X00001:_ Thank you! –Jen

_Foenixfyre:_ Bah, no apologies needed. What's in a name? I'm really glad to hear that you think the styles blend, anyhow-- we do write differently, but in very... complimentary ways, it seemed to me. I'm glad that it wasn't just because I'm in love with Jen's Jean. (Oh hell... she so converted me...) The society characters were fun for us, I think we just created them as needed and both ended up with the exact same idea about them. We think much alike sometimes... particularly on the subject of wings. ;) So glad you're still reading and enjoying! –Beaubier

_Reeny:_ Thank you! I'm actually a huge Scott/Jean fan myself, but I just couldn't resist writing a story that paired together my Jean with Beaubier's Warren - he's just too wonderful. And I'm really not trying to make Scott out to be the bad guy. Scott was the one who wanted to spend time with Jean when he got home - she was the one who hesitated. She only agreed to go with him because she knew he was making the effort, an appreciated the gesture. I think it will become more evident that the fault lies with both of them, as the story progresses. Hope you keep reading to see how things turn out! –Jen

_Eixid:_ My god... thank you so much! Beaubier and I have tried very, very hard to blend out styles, but it's difficult. As she said to another reviewer, we have very different styles, but they seem to be complimentary. And no, there will be no character bashing. I, personally, love Scott. I'm a Scott/Jean fan from way back, in fact, and to this point that's the only pairing I've written. So no, I promise I will not turn Scott into a dick just to give Jean and excuse to run off with Warren. Relationships are always so much more complex than that, and I hope that we'll be able to accurately portray that in this fic. Thanks again for the fantastic review, and I hope you keep reading and enjoying! –Jen

* * *


	7. Chapter 4

_**Chapter 4**_

_Week 1: Friday_

Columbia University was a bustling, sprawling institution. Faculty and students hurried through the campus, going from building to building as classes changed. Groups of students were scattered across the green spaces, some sitting under trees whose leaves were slowly starting to take on a red and gold tint, others were sunbathing in the still-strong early autumn sunlight, and still others tossing Frisbees back and forth.  
  
Today, Jean had stayed after her last class to talk to her professor about a particularly intriguing lab assignment. After finally being satisfied with the information she gathered, Jean headed for the library to check out some additional resource books. After locating two of the three books she wanted, Jean slowly made her way back to where she'd parked, browsing through one of the books as she walked. She didn't drive everyday, but sometimes she just couldn't bear the thought of taking the train and being around so many people. She preferred the solitude of her SUV, even if it meant driving in hellish traffic. Glancing at her watch, Jean frowned. She'd taken a lot longer than she'd planned, and now rush hour was already beginning. If she tried to head home now, it would take her several long hours of sitting in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Definitely not her idea of fun.  
  
She reached the parking lot and unlocked the SUV, tossing her book bag in the back seat, still trying to figure out her plan of attack. Climbing behind the wheel, Jean grinned as she was struck by an idea. She searched through her bag for her cell phone, flipped through the address book and selected the right number. Jean waited for him to answer, hoping she wouldn't be interrupting anything important. 

X

Jean had made a couple of stops on her way to Warren's, giving him enough time to wrap up a meeting and get home. When Jean had explained how she'd gotten tied up with classes, and hadn't felt like fighting rush hour traffic (on a Friday of all days), Warren had graciously offered to order in dinner and wait out rush hour with her, and Jean had jumped at the offer.  
  
As she gave her keys to the valet at Worthington Towers, she felt a little self-conscious about how she was dressed. Gone was the woman with whom Warren had spent an evening at the theater; in her place was a simple college student dressed in jeans and a white and mauve floral gauzy peasant-style top (a recent purchase Christy had talked her into that Jean wasn't entirely sure she loved), black leather mules. Her hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and Jean suddenly found herself wishing she'd at least put on some make-up this morning so that she wouldn't look quite so much like the teenager she in fact was.  
  
Jean stepped onto the elevator and hit the button for the top floor. The ride up seemed to take forever, and she found her stomach clenching a little in anticipation of seeing Warren. That confused her. Why was she worried about spending time with a friend? Was it simply that they didn't know each other very well yet? Quite possibly.

X

Warren had zig-zagged his way through the horrible traffic, and practically ran up to his penthouse, dying to get the hell out of the harness... not to mention straighten the kitchen, which still had last night's take out boxes on the counter. He sighed in relief as he dropped the harness to the floor, and kicked it into the closet, then pulled on his blue, faded print Cambridge T-shirt, specially modified to accommodate wings with two small slits in the back, practically invisible once they were fastened together and covered by his wings. It had taken him and the doc a long time to come up with that, but hell if he was going to suffer through not being able to wear anything comfortable, when he had to wear a shirt. Which was... well, most of the time. He pulled on a pair of low-slung Diesel jeans, the dark ones that looked like someone had spilled rust over them, suddenly very glad that his mother had bought him something a little more "modern 20-something" than what he was usually forced to wear. After all, they weren't exactly going to a show tonight-- he couldn't walk around in slacks and a dress shirt.  
  
And god, he really didn't want to. He examined himself in the mirror, quickly, running a hand through his thick blonde hair, checking his face to make sure it was still clean-shaven enough. The over all effect made him look... well, like himself. Not that he needed to be overly impressive, after all. Not as if fantasizing about her for a solid week meant he had a snowball's chance in hell. Just some nice friendly company. Something he hadn't had in ages.  
  
But it wasn't a crime to want to look good, right?  
  
Chinese food. They needed Chinese food.  
  
He made his way downstairs, grabbing the phone as he walked by, and dialing the number for his favorite take-out place. As he ordered, he cleared off the counters and wiped them off, stretching his wings out now and then. They had been entirely too twitchy all day.  
  
And damn, what was with his stomach? Flipping over like that. Sure, maybe they flirted a little, but it was just Jean...  
  
Yeah okay. That wasn't going to calm him down at all.  
  
He hung up the phone, threw the dish rag into the sink... and heard a knock at the door.  
  
For Warren, a knock at the door meant one of two things-- his food was here, or the housekeeper was here. Food happened about every night, as Warren wasn't much of a cook. Housekeeper came once a week, at his mother's request, and there was never much for her to do since Warren was a bit of an obsessive-compulsive cleaner at times.  
  
But this knock made his heart stop.  
  
He swallowed hard, took a deep breath, told himself not to be ridiculous, and went to the door. He wasn't worried about opening it with his wings free. He knew it was her. The knock even sounded like her. Somehow.  
  
Another deep breath and he opened the door. And there she was, absolutely bloody gorgeous, all that beautiful red hair pulled back in a ponytail, giving him the full view of her glowing face. And my god, it was a beautiful face. Those eyes... And her legs in those jeans... he didn't even want to _think_ of what the back view would be like, they fit her so perfectly.

Good god. Maybe this hadn't been such a brilliant idea, after all.

"Jean," he managed, after a moment, still smiling in a way he hoped wasn't _too_ entirely ridiculous. "You look wonderful. Please, come in." He stepped back, to make it clear that she should do just that.

She couldn't help but blush lightly at the compliment, but recovered quickly, grinning at him as she walked past him into his apartment. "Thanks. You don't look so bad yourself," she told him, hoping it didn't sound as corny as she thought it did. Because she really did mean it. He looked fabulous: his beautiful wings were free, and he looked disturbingly good in jeans and a t-shirt.

He was rather afraid his grin would split his face, when she said that. Not that it mattered if he looked good, right? Just that... god he wanted her to think he looked good...  
  
Warren closed the door as she walked into the apartment, and he couldn't help but steal a glance, to get that back view. And damn... damn he'd been right. Jeans fit like they were cut specifically for her. Good god. Yes, probably not the most brilliant idea he'd ever had in his life. Stupid. Wonderfully, beautifully stupid, inviting her over here. And he'd do it again in a heartbeat.  
  
Jean dropped her bag by the door and slipped off her brown leather mules, leaving herself barefoot. She then took a moment to glance around the penthouse, using it as an excuse not focus on him in those low-slung jeans. The apartment looked professionally decorated, minimalist and homey at the same time. She liked it immediately. "Wow, very nice," she said, nodding approvingly, then turned back to Warren, smiling as she walked further into the apartment. "I'm glad you didn't have any plans for tonight. You've saved me from the five hours of hell that seems to be rush 'hour' nowadays."  
  
He turned to look at her, and offer her something to drink when Jean stopped and turned, putting her hands on her hips and raised an eyebrow at him, smirking playfully. "Now, about that groveling...."

Oh god. God... Maybe he was just horribly lonely and horny and... well, a goddamn 20-year-old young man. But the kinds of things he was willing to-- no, would _enjoy_ begging her for-- were so incredibly inappropriate...  
  
He felt his knees go slightly weak, and managed to remain standing by sheer force of will alone. He also felt his heart speed up, and his blood start to rush. Which he could deal with. He was good under pressure, after all. As long as it didn't rush _there_, he was fine. Just. Fine.  
  
Without missing a beat, however, he flashed her a huge smile, and held out his hands, in a placating gesture, and forced his legs to let him move to stand next to her, between her and the doorway to the kitchen. And if he enjoyed the warm, citrusy, strangely intoxicating scent she seemed to carry with her a little more for being in closer proximity, where was the harm in it?

"I'm prepared to make good on my offer, as promised. Where would you like me to begin? Perhaps with a glass of wine and some dinner, and then we can move on to the abject humiliation?"

Jean laughed and grinned up at him. She loved the open, playful look in his blue eyes as he watched her. "Wine and dinner sound like a wonderful start," she told him. "After the wine kicks in, maybe we can discuss the abject humiliation part of your offer." Jean grinned at him again. "Come on, I'll give you a hand with the wine," she offered, slipping past him into the kitchen.

An extremely crude remark he remembered hearing one of his friends on the soccer team at school say, as one of the girls had been walking away from them on the field one day, suddenly came to mind. _Hate to see you leave, but love to watch you go._  
  
He was grinning like an idiot as he followed her into the kitchen, her easy smile, the genuine laughter in her eyes having brought him back to himself. His legs felt like they were willing to cooperate again. He could do this. She'd keep laughing, and he'd keep smiling, and he'd have his fun. It was normal to fantasize about girls you knew, after all. He wasn't a damn saint. Or an angel. No matter what it looked like. But he could control himself, goddammit.  
  
As long as she didn't talk too much about making him beg. At least, not until he had enough wine in him to exhibit the syndromes of Broken Elevator Syndrome. (No matter how many buttons you push, you can't get it up.) "I'll pay my penance, you have my word," he promised. Trying not to think of just how he'd prefer to pay. Or to stare at her in those jeans. Which ended up making him think of just how he'd prefer to pay. Which... vicious cycle, really.  
  
She headed for the fully-stocked wine fridge and he went with her, still grinning, pulling out a few bottles that he thought would compliment what they'd ordered. They'd both gone with seafood, so he pulled out a decent Chardonnay. She liked white anyhow. He knew that. "This is good, I think you'll like it." He considered the label carefully, ruffling his wings just a little. Still a bit twitchy.  
  
Warren then realized that she'd said she wanted to help, and looked around. "Glasses are there, hanging by the bar, if you want to pick out some you like." He nodded to the crystal that hung in the almost-hutch built into the wall, over a long countertop. He had roughly four varieties of white wine glasses, all from the Estate, there. Usually he chose them at random when he had a glass but maybe she'd like one better than the other... "I'll get the corkscrew."

He moved to the drawer he usually kept the thing in and looked over his shoulder, stealing just one more glance at her. Glad she couldn't see it this time. Because he had a feeling it was just a little more covetous than any girl who was just a friend would be comfortable with.

Jean examined the selection of wine glasses, and decided she didn't really care which ones they used. They were all nice, and to be perfectly honest, she thought a glass was a glass. They were hanging just slightly out of reach, so she used her telekinesis to lift two glasses from the rack, and float them over to where Warren was searching for a corkscrew.  
  
His back was to her, and she couldn't help but admire, once again, how _good_ he looked in those jeans and that t-shirt. She hadn't been able to picture him in casual clothes - not that she'd been trying to picture it...much - but was pleased to see that he looked just as natural in them as he did in an Armani suit. And his wings....god, they were magnificent. Warren ruffled them a little and she frowned, wondering if he was bothered by something.

"How are you adjusting to the school, anyhow? I can't imagine finding my way around such a massive campus... I'd get lost with a map and three compasses. I'm completely hopeless, directionally, when I'm on the ground."  
  
Warren looked up, impressed, as two wine glasses landed gently next to him, on the counter. Goddamn, she was good.  
  
And how brilliant this was, being so... honest. Their mutations were simply their nature... and here they were, acting like normal people. His wings ruffling, her floating glasses to him from across the kitchen. And he couldn't stop smiling, just because of that. Because living alone for so long... he'd learned to really latch on to the small things. And this was one thing he'd never really felt before. So he figured he'd better appreciate it before it was gone.

She came right behind the glasses, bringing that intoxicating, warm, citrus scent with her, leaning against the counter as he struggled with his dilapidated corkscrew. He really should get a new one, but it wasn't exactly the first thing on his mind when he was out.

God. Jean. Was here. In his apartment.  
  
No one ever came to his apartment. And _she_, of all people, was here. Now. With him.  
  
He really wished he could stop smiling. He probably looked like a complete fool.

"I love it," she told him as she stopped beside him, setting the glasses down on the counter. She leaned her hip against the cupboards and watched him fuss with the wine bottle's cork. "The campus is big, yes, but it's not that bad. I'm not particularly good with directions myself, but once I've been somewhere once or twice, I'm generally fine." Jean smiled. "I did get lost a few times, but I just relied on the kindness of strangers," she said, delivering the last bit in her best Scarlet O'Hara impersonation.

He raised an eyebrow at her, fully appreciating the joke. If Warren was proud of one thing he owned, it was his movie collection. And picturing Jean as Scarlet O'Hara was just fantastic, that was for damn sure. Just flat out adorable.  
  
And he was pretty sure a girl like her would get plenty of kindness from strangers. Particularly from men. She could certainly help herself to his, anyhow.

Then Jean grinned again. "And how was your day, dear?" she asked teasingly.

He laughed at that, quietly, and finally succeeded in removing the cork, then started pouring wine into the glasses. "Why just fine, thank you for asking, darling," he played the Ward Cleaver role for her, thoroughly enjoying it. "Rough day at the office, sure is nice to come home to your smiling face.  
  
"Alright, seriously." He shook his head, rolling his eyes at his own goofy continuation of her perfectly decent joke, handing her the first glass. "It was horribly lame, to be honest. I won't bore you with the details of a meeting about a company I'm not going to buy. Not because I think you wouldn't be interested, simply because I don't remember myself, because I was falling asleep." He picked up his own glass and sniffed at it, turning to face her, leaning his own hip against the counter and tucking up his wing on that side a little tighter. Their flexibility was such that he could compact them to an almost impossibly small space-- a blessing when he had to go out in public, even if doing it for an extended period of time tended to make them a bit twitchy.

Smirking, Jean took a sip of the wine. She watched him move, shifting his weight and folding his wings against himself, unable to avoid appreciating how sensually he moved.  
  
"So while you may think I've saved you from five hours in New York traffic hell, you've done me a much greater service. If you hadn't called, I'd still be staring at the new intern, Paul, talking about that nonsense. And the view is much better here," he smiled gently, taking a sip of the wine.

Her cheeks burned, but she didn't break eye contact. Instead, she smiled, albeit somewhat shyly. "I'm sure Paul will be devastated to learn that you don't think he's nice to look at," she quipped, taking another sip of her wine and allowing herself to digest his compliment. Warren really was very charming, delivering compliments with an ease and sincerity that was utterly convincing and unaffected. Women probably swooned at his feet on a regular basis. "Speaking of views, I bet you have a spectacular view of the city from up here," she said, pushing herself away from the counter and starting to walk out of the kitchen.

He was content to stay leaning there, and watch her walk away. The slight swing to her hips, the way her shining hair echoed it, hanging down her back in that long ponytail.  
  
She glanced back at him, over her shoulder, smiling. "Care to show me?"  
  
God. That smile.  
  
Right. He was supposed to go with her.  
  
_Stop staring like a thirteen-year-old boy and show her the view, you cretin._  
  
He pushed off the cabinets lightly and started to follow her, leading her back out into the high-ceilinged living area and toward the huge picture windows. They effectively created glass walls that were always covered with light, filmy white curtains that allowed the light but no curious eyes in. "Funny you should say that about Paul, actually," he smirked at the memory of his conversation with his mother the Sunday before. "I mentioned that my mother no longer thinks I'm gay, but I didn't quite explain. Apparently, the fact that I don't date, at least not that anyone knows of," he raised an eyebrow conspiratorially at her at that, and his grin became genuine amusement, "led my parents to question my... orientation, let's say. I do believe my mother feared she'd never have grandchildren, until you turned up with me at the theater the other night. She thanks you for setting her heart at ease," he joked, laughing gently, as they reached the window.

Jean laughed freely, grinning as she imagined the conversation Warren had with his mother. "I'm glad I could help," she giggled.  
  
Warren reached up with his free hand, and pulled back the curtain, to afford her the view of the city. And he had to admit... it was nice. Better from the roof, but nice here as well. "It's better from up there," he pointed upward, looking over to her, where she stood at his side. Looking down at her, really. He had quite a few inches on her. "Especially at night. We can try that later, when we're not listening for the door, if you like."

"That sounds wonderful," Jean assured him, already picturing how beautiful the city would be from their vantage point once the sun was down. She glanced at Warren, watching him. He seemed so relaxed, so completely natural... so different from the way he'd been when she first met him at the Museum. He'd been friendly, yes, but so guarded, so cautious. Jean found it amazing that they'd grown so completely comfortable with each other in such a short period of time. Other than their exchanges in their text message wars, they'd only spent one day together. It was almost uncanny how well they got along, how well they clicked. "So you said you'd tell me about your conversation with your mother. Other than assuring her that you aren't gay, how did it go? Were we a hit?"

"Oh, absolutely," he grinned, sipping at his wine again. "Mrs. Bexley told her all about you. Charming, beautiful, witty. She was _so_ interested in who your 'people' are." He glanced up at the ceiling at that, pulling a rather long-suffering expression off, with a slight laugh. "Although she did lose points for calling me at six AM, and then at six forty-five, and then at seven thirty... it was an extremely entertaining conversation."  
  
A light knock came at the door then, and he was actually startled just a bit. He'd almost forgotten what they were doing here... having dinner. Waiting out rush hour. Right.  
  
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out the bill he'd tucked there, in anticipation of the food appearing. "Would you mind answering the door?" He fluttered his wings just a bit, for emphasis as to why, offering up an almost shy half-grin. His wings... he was a bit sensitive about, really. And though he loved not having to hide them from her-- more than he'd expected to even-- he also wasn't quite used to making such direct reference to them either. "Normally, I'd do the honors, but I couldn't wait to get changed when I came home. We don't need change, it's for him." He pressed the bill into her hand, allowing himself to linger there for just a moment.  
  
Just because he wanted to be sure it didn't drop. Of course.  
  
"I'll start getting out the dishes."

X

The coffee table was officially a disaster area. Take-out cartons of fried rice, low-mein noodles, and shrimp and veggies dishes covered the surface, scattered haphazardly about. Serving utensils lay fallen and forgotten, leaving sticky, gooey puddles that would be terrible to try to clean up later. An empty bottle of wine sat in the middle of the table, two half-full glasses beside it. Sitting on the living room floor, Jean and Warren ate off plates sitting in their laps. As the wine began to take effect, Jean was finding it increasingly difficult to use her chopsticks. She was embarrassed to be such a light-weight, and was determined not to let Warren notice her lack of manual dexterity.  
  
"This is probably the best Chinese food I've ever had," Jean admitted, pausing between mouthfuls. Securing a shrimp with her chopsticks, she lifted it to her lips and made quiet _yummy_ sounds as she chewed, smiling contentedly. "Wonderful choice," she said approvingly, saluting him with the wooden utensils.

Warren laughed, his face feeling pleasantly warm after half a bottle of wine, his stomach pleasantly warm after half a metric ton of amazing Chinese food. "Glad you like it!"  
  
God... she was adorable. She was... everything. Serious and thoughtful, laughing and sweet, intelligent and curious... everything all at once. God. He could just sit there and watch her forever. Wanted to memorize every move she made.

"Oh!" Jean exclaimed, then TKed her wine glass to her waiting hand, and raised her glass to Warren. "To good food, and good friends," she toasted, smiling broadly. "And to many more evenings like this."

Warren took his own glass in hand, well pleased with her toast, and raised his glass in a salute of his own, laughing again. "Definitely worth drinking to."  
  
He did so, and frowned into the glass. Done in, very nearly. That wouldn't do. Couldn't let anyone's glass go dry in his house, could he? He pushed himself to standing, surprising himself by having no trouble at all getting to his feet, in spite of the faint fuzz that seemed to be packing into his brain (not bad, of course, just a little buzz-- he'd seen worse), and took the empty bottle in hand. "I'll find us some more of this," he informed her, raising his eyebrows at her and grinning.

"In the meantime," he started moving into the kitchen, still talking to her as he knew very well he could be plainly heard from there, "tell me about what it is you do when you're not... creating something or helping someone or being an X-Man or a college student. You make me feel like I spend an inordinate amount of time being a shiftless layabout with a ridiculous DVD collection and a mental file of movie quotes that probably qualifies me as World's Biggest Geek in someone's book."

As he pulled out another bottle of the same vintage, he mentally kicked himself for admitting to that. Right. Maybe getting a little _too_ comfortable with Jean. Hard not to when she was sitting there TKing wine glasses around and saluting him with chopsticks and making him want to...  
  
_More wine. Give me that broken elevator. Oh god please. Cause I have a feeling I'm absolutely not there yet..._  
  
He came back into the living room, walking back to his spot on the floor as he continued, "You know, what does Jean Grey do when she's sitting at home in her sweats, when she has no motivation to be productive? Sit and think? About poetry maybe?"  
  
And he left the hint, that he wanted more information on that last subject, wide open. Even though he didn't expect any. Not at all.

Jean grinned. "Nice try," she said, shaking her head, flattered that he'd even remembered it was one of her pastimes. "I told you, I never show anyone my poetry, and I don't talk about it much, either. In fact, in case I didn't mention it before, you're the only person who even knows I write. It's my little secret. It's purely therapeutic, a personal outlet for me, that's all."

"Shot down," he laughed quietly, shaking his head as he settled back down to the floor, curling one leg up, as if he were going to sit Indian-style, and pulling his other leg up to his chest, so he could lean on his own knee. But honestly... no one else knew about it. And he did. And at that moment in time, that made him feel pretty damn cool. Not cool enough to push the issue... but he was definitely dying to find out what it was she wrote about. So he wouldn't forget it. Just... wouldn't push it.  
  
Placing her now empty plate on the crowded table, Jean uncrossed her legs, stretching them out in front of her and leaning back against the sofa. She looked at her bare feet, and wriggled her toes to get to the blood flowing again. She then took a long sip from her freshly topped-up wine glass.

"God, what _do_ I do when I'm being completely lazy? I read a lot, listen to music, surf the Internet," she listed with a shrug. "And I like to just do absolutely nothing but veg in front of the tv. Helps the brain shut down."

Warren nodded-- _that_ was what he'd been talking about. When he wanted to do something therapeutic, relaxing, shut down. He watched movies.

Jean swirled the pale gold liquid around in her glass before taking another sip and flashing Warren another smile. "So, War, what are your favorite movie in your DVD collection?" 

He grinned, instinctively, at the shortening of his name. God, his mother would throw a fit. But he actually liked it-- when the right person said it. His friends on the soccer team at school used to call him that when he was captain. And it somehow seemed... right, coming from Jean. She'd earned the right a thousand times over already to call him whatever she liked. And that one, in particular, suited him just fine.  
  
"Here, I'll show you something." His grin widened as he reached for the remote control, which had somehow ended up halfway across the floor. He flipped over onto his stomach and reached out for it, tucking his wings up to his back close, and finally achieved his goal.

Jean tried very hard not to stare as Warren flipped onto his stomach to retrieve the remote. His wings were positively hypnotic in their beauty. And at the risk of becoming obsessive, she reminded herself that she _really_ did like how he looked in those jeans.

Controller in hand, completely oblivious to the ridiculousness of his refusal to simply stand up, walk over to the remote, and pick it up, he proceeded to find the button he wanted, and punch it. "Ha! There it is!"

The two black glass doors on either side of the flat screen television suddenly slid aside, and folded back around the outside of the entertainment center. Revealing the treasure of all treasures. shelf after shelf of DVDs in perfect alphabetical order. And it made Warren's grin even larger. He looked back over his shoulder, still lying on the floor on his stomach propped up on his elbows, at Jean. "I don't own a lot of... just stuff. You'd think I would, but I really don't. Except these. There are about four hundred there, all told. And I love them all. See if you can find your favorite movie. If you can't, I'll add it to my list."

Jean knew she had to be gaping a little at his expansive collection, but she really couldn't help it. God, they could spend months watching movies all day every day and still never see a film twice. Eyes flitting back to Warren as he got to his feet, admiring the fluidity of his movements, Jean watched as he walked over to the DVDs and plucked one off the shelf.  
  
"_Some Like it Hot_," he read aloud. "This is my favorite comedy."  
  
He was well aware that this was childish. Jean was used to the sophisticated man in the Armani suit who'd taken her out on the town the other night, or the serious Angel, the superhero. But this was just... Warren. No. Actually, it was... War.  
  
Well, he knew about her poetry. She knew he was a geek. That might leave them about even.  
  
_Damn... left my wine all the way over at the table... and after I crawled over here..._

Crossing her legs again and pushing herself up to her feet, Jean picked up Warren's wine glass as she passed it on her way to join him, having noticed his brief glance at it. She didn't quite trust her telekinesis at this point, knowing that alcohol affected both her powers, made her ability to control them a little more tenuous. She handed Warren his glass, fingers brushing and tingling during the pass, and she shook it off as she scanned the titles in front of her, curious to see what he had in his collection.

She smiled as she found most of her favorites sitting on the shelves, scattered among some more classic films. "Wow, somebody apparently has a bit of a Marilyn Monroe fetish," Jean teased him with a wink. "I thought you didn't like bleach blonds?"  
  
This time, he used his newly re-acquired wine glass to cover his stupid grin. Yes. Yes he did like Marilyn Monroe. Any man who didn't was... not interested in women. He fought, however, not to mention his only slightly less consuming "thing" for Rita Hayworth, the positively stunning redhead, with the composure of a princess and the body of a goddess, whom he'd been certain they didn't make them like these days.  
  
Go figure. Wrong again. Made them better these days, apparently.  
  
Jean moved again and stood directly in front of him to look at the rest of the DVDs and found herself leaning back against him ever-so-slightly. Just enough that they were lightly touching. "Very impressive," she said with a nod, leaning back a little more and leaning to the side so she could look up at him. "Fantastic collection. I can't say I blame you for being proud of this. I've never actually seen _Some Like It Hot_. Maybe we could watch it later."  
  
He looked down at her, enjoying the warmth of her just-barely-there-touch against him, all over him, and leaned forward just a bit. "We can watch whatever you'd like. Though I don't think it will do much to dispel the myth about me being gay, as it involves an awful lot of cross dressing." Warren winked, his chest now against her back, and nothing light about it. He reached between her arm and her torso, effectively slipping an arm around her, and reached out for a DVD that had caught his eye. He pulled it out halfway, marking its place, and then pulled out another half way. Leaning over her. His face next to hers. Her cheek barely brushing his.  
  
God she smelled good. And he didn't even care if he was making excuses to be close to her. He knew he was. He could have easily moved away from her, done that without even touching her. But he didn't want to. And he'd had enough wine that he honestly didn't give a damn.

"So, tell me. If I like Marilyn Monroe and Rita Hayworth," Hm... hadn't meant to let that one slip... ah well, what did it matter anyhow? "Are you more a Brad Pitt kind of woman," he pointed to the first movie he'd pulled out of its spot, _Fight Club_ (yet another thing every man should love), "or Johnny Depp?" He signaled the second one, _Edward Scissorhands_ (not his sexiest role maybe, but fantastic film anyhow.)  
  
And he stood for just a second, waiting for an answer, Jean leaning against him, fighting an urge to take the hand he was using to gesture to DVDs with and slide his thumb into the front pocket of her jeans, or wrap his arm around her waist and hold her there, gently. Touching like this, it could be friendly. Innocent. But no need to scare her away. No. But hopefully, he'd given her an excuse to stay like this. For just a minute longer.

Jean promptly forgot to listen to what Warren was talking about and just lean back against him. It just felt so _nice_. And she felt completely at home standing there with him pressed against her. She swayed backward, leaning more heavily against him, letting her head drop back a bit against him as she considered the question.

It was all Warren could do not to turn his head, just slightly, rub his cheek against hers, look down and let his lips touch the soft, pale skin of her neck, just to see what she would taste like, because god, she smelled so good...  
  
_Whoa boy. You're starting to cause yourself some problems thinking like that. Just relax and enjoy. One wrong move and it's over._  
  
"Ah yes, the dilemma of the century for women everywhere," Jean laughed. "Brad Pitt, a decent actor and hands-down one of the sexiest men alive. Or Johnny Depp, a wonderful actor, but not what I personally consider sexy." She pretended to ponder the choice for a moment while she sipped her wine, when in reality she was just enjoying being close to Warren. Finally she grinned. "Yes, I'm definitely more of a Brad Pitt girl. Blond hair, blue eyes, and my god, that _smile_... He's just so damn _pretty_."

Silently, Warren said a very quick prayer to whatever the hell god had such a sick sense of humor to send a girl like this his way, and make her completely unavailable, and thanked him for his Worthington coloring. Blond hair and blue eyes. He'd never been so happy for it in his life. But he sure as hell was happy right then.  
  
He was no Brad Pitt, of course. But he'd take what he could get. Close enough to make him want to kiss her neck again, anyhow, to make his stomach lurch in the most pleasant way possible.

Jean blushed, realizing she'd been gushing. "Sorry. Short answer? Brad Pitt. And you, Julia Roberts or Nicole Kidman?"

It took a moment to register that it was a question. As if he could think of Julia Roberts and Nicole Kidman at a time like this. He wondered, rather fuzzily, if she was able to feel his heartbeat. It seemed to be thudding rather quickly, in his chest _and_ in his ears, at the moment.  
  
Warren reached up again, sliding his arm back under hers, and pulled out the new _Ocean's Eleven_, one of his personal favorites (both the new version, and the Rat Pack version, of course), and tapped it on the spine. "Julia Roberts..." He pretended that it was even worth considering the other option by then searching out _The Others_, and sliding it halfway out. He always liked a scary movie, of course. He wondered, offhand, if Jean was one of those people who grabbed the nearest person to her in a scary film. Maybe he should get out _The Ring_... "Or Nicole Kidman.  
  
"Well, both can appear very classy, that's true. And important. But I'm afraid the Australian competitor seems a bit too... one-sided for me. Granted, she's done a Kubrick film, which is a bonus, but... I think I have to go with Julia Roberts. Not only is she gorgeous, but her laugh makes me laugh. Great laugh, tall, great legs, all that lovely red hair..." Before he knew what he was doing, he'd turned his face in to her, just slightly, and their cheeks were against each other again. Hot and flushed and oh god if he turned just a _little_ more her mouth was right there... 

Oh god, that felt so good. Warren's light stubble scraped gently against her sensitive skin, and she tried very hard not to nuzzle him. Jean wasn't quite sure what was wrong with her - she knew she was affectionate, rather touchy-feely, but usually only with people she knew well. She'd never before felt this compelling urge, the irresistible _need_ to touch someone.  
  
Warren pretended to be looking for another movie, and was pleased to find _The Mexican_. Excellent excuse. He slid it halfway out, after pushing the others back in, and forced himself to separate from her just a little, taking a step back. Because his heart couldn't handle it. And he was pretty sure other parts of him were going to start being unable to cope as well, in about five seconds. "There we go, Julia Roberts and Brad Pitt together. Not the best movie though." Warren lifted his glass, and sipped at it, and missed the feeling of her being that close already. She was right there, not a foot in front of him. And it wasn't enough. It was never going to be enough, though. So he should probably just start accepting it. And take what he could get.  
  
"Want to watch something good?" he asked, hoping his tone sounded conversational, rather than slightly emotional. He thought it did, but he was dealing with a telepath here. Some things... she might just _know_. Not that he cared that much, at this point. But no need to make things uncomfortable. "Pick anything, surprise me, and we'll finish this bottle."  
  
He knew he shouldn't offer. He knew that rush hour was over. And he knew that if she stayed for a movie and another bottle, it'd be far too late, and they would be far too drunk.  
  
But he didn't care, at the moment. Not at all.

Grinning, Jean looked up at him again. "You're on." A movie and more wine sounded like an excellent idea to her. She was having a wonderful time, and had no desire to leave anytime soon. 

X

Warren thought it quite possible, at that moment, that he'd never been happier.  
  
And it was ridiculous. He was sitting on the couch, his wings tucked up tight behind him forming a comfortable sort of cradle for his back, in the corner of the couch, his legs stretched out and resting on the still disastrous coffee table. Jean was at the other end of the couch but had her long legs stretched out as well, her feet resting in his lap. He held his wine glass in one hand, the one nearest to her, and his other hand, he was almost surprised to realize, was absently rubbing one of her feet.  
  
She had lovely feet, even. Small, with her toenails painted just the slightest shade of mauve, almost white, really...  
  
He looked over at her, in the low light of the living room. Most of the lights were off, and the sun was down now. The television flickered eerily off of her, and her bright eyes reflected the glow. Haunting and beautiful. And he couldn't give a damn about the movie.  
  
Even if she looked... irritated.  
  
His gaze flicked to the screen, where Guinevere was dealing with her issues, being torn between her valiant husband, Arthur (cast rather stupidly with Sean Connery, which was a decision Warren had yet to understand) and Lancelot (played by Richard Gere... which was yet another stupid decision as far as he was concerned). Jean's nose was wrinkled up and she looked ready to say _something_...  
  
Damn, she was cute when she was annoyed.  
  
Of course, she was cute when she did anything, so he wasn't terribly surprised at the sentiment. And he had enough wine in him to not be the least bit bothered at the sentiment. Not one little bit.  
  
"Something wrong, Jean?" Warren's voice startled her, and she tore her eyes away from the offending scene on the television to look at him. He had a very amused grin on his handsome face as he watched her, waiting expectantly.  
  
"This is making me crazy," Jean declared, brow furrowed in frustration. "Guinevere is supposed to be a strong, independent woman, not a simpering, whiny little girl like that." Jean waved her hand at the television dismissively. "She's supposed to be a true leader, an equal of Arthur's. This is just so..._wrong_."

Warren tried desperately to keep a straight face as he listened to Jean's short rant. Actually, he could not have agreed more. It was portrayals like this one that had made him _strongly_ dislike the "heroine" of this, one of his favorite all-time stories, more often than not.  
  
Not that _First Knight_ was the best retelling. But it served its purposes, anyhow.  
  
But no matter how valid the point she was making, he couldn't help but listen to the impish little voice in his head, a voice she tended to bring out rather often, apparently, as it reminded him of their little journal conversation the night before. And just how angry he could make her with a few words, right there and then.  
  
And just how lovely she was when she was irritated.  
  
He had the forethought to put down his wine glass, after taking the final sip, and leaning over her feet to deposit it on the coffee table. And when he sat back up, he could only cock his head at her, and raise his eyebrows, fighting desperately not to crack a smile as he informed her, "Well, now Jean, it's not her fault. Not everyone can be quite as... what's the word I want here...? Oh yes, _assertive_, as you."  
  
Jean wasn't sure her wine-fuzzied brain had really heard what she thought she'd heard, but the shit-eating grin on Warren's face confirmed it.

She swung her feet off his lap, placed her wine glass on the floor and lunged at him. Then she began thwacking his arm repeatedly. "You!" she screeched accusingly. "I can't believe you! You son of a bitch!"

The reaction was even better than Warren had hoped for. He couldn't _not_ laugh. She was just too wonderful, green fire in her eyes and fully intent on causing him serious bodily harm. And he could not. stop. laughing.  
  
His laughter as she pummeled him only served to fuel her attack. Kneeling up on the couch so she towered over him, she continued to wail on him. "Stop laughing, dammit! And do NOT. CALL. ME. _ASSERTIVE_!" She punctuated each word with a smack to somewhere on his upper body. She didn't care where, she just needed to hit him.

Man, she was tough. Wonderful. Absolutely bloody brilliant! However, he was pretty sure, as he laughed so hard he thought his sides were going to split apart, that she would do this all night if he didn't do something about it. And he certainly didn't want to grab her arms and _make_ her stop... if he could even get _a hold_ on her, for that matter.  
  
He reached out with both arms and tried to catch her off guard as she continued to screech at him and attempt to pummel him senseless. He finally succeeded, and managed to twist her around, then pull her hard against him, her back to his front, his arms tight around hers, and latching at her waist, so that she was, effectively, in his lap. 

Surprised both by Warren's attempt to restrain her and his unexpected strength, Jean succumbed to his efforts much more easily than she normally would have... especially had she not helped consume two bottles of wine over the past few hours. Surprisingly strong arms wrapped around her, turning her and pulling her against his broad chest.  
  
Her fight died down then, just a little, which was good. He leaned forward just a little, to put his lips close to her ear, and tried to stop laughing long enough to say, "Alright, alright, I yield to you. You win, I can't withstand much more of that."  
  
Or, he realized suddenly, much more of this. Because Jean Grey was in his arms, in his _lap_, and she wasn't trying to get away. In fact, the fight had died almost completely. But god... this was just as well. Hell, it was better. Warm and flushed and as fuzzy as things were, the weight of her, the strange mix of softness and hardness, the feeling of her ponytail, wild and brushing against the back of his neck, as he held her against his chest... And his heart was thudding in his ears again. Instantly.

A retort died on her lips as she realized she was sitting in his lap. And she liked it. A lot. Jean stopped fighting all together. Her heartbeat seemed to have picked up speed, fluttering a little, and her stomach lurched. God, it felt good to be sitting with him like this, his body practically wrapped around hers.

She was quiet for just a moment, and Warren had to appreciate it. All of it. A week ago, he would not have believed this would happen. That he would be laughing so much. That he would be so goddamn happy, no matter how painful it was to think that it wasn't... what he wished it could be. It still was. And she was still here. And god... god he was glad for it.  
  
_Jean, focus,_ the redhead ordered herself. _He can't get away with that. He's got to pay for being such a bastard._  
  
"You yield, hmm? Sorry, that's just not going to cut it," she told him, turning her head so she could catch his eye. Jean arched an eyebrow, her smile almost predatory. "I think it's time you begged me for forgiveness."

The look on her face... Good god. Gently, he removed her from his lap, and brought himself to standing, before he embarrassed himself. He was not very pleased with the wine, at that moment. Fuzzy-headed, and no broken elevator. He either needed to drink more... or keep her out of his lap. Especially if she was going to look at him like that. Like she would eat him right up if he didn't tread carefully.  
  
He'd half-expected it to come to this, of course, eventually. At least, since the second bottle, he had. And despite the fact that he'd promised "abject humiliation"... he had a feeling it was going to be much better than that. Because even if it wasn't... what it could be... He was still going to do it right.  
  
He pushed the destroyed coffee table back, just a bit, as she arranged herself properly on the couch, sitting up straight, the look on her gorgeous, slightly flushed face retaining its predatory quality. When he had things arranged as he liked, he dropped to his knees, just in front of her, and looked up, raking his eyes over her face once again, then over the rest of her. It was automatic. He couldn't help it. He didn't even think about it. He just... took her all in, all at once. Looking down at him.

Suddenly Warren had a flash of her raising one of her feet up, and planting it on his shoulder. Leaning over, that expression that spoke volumes about being a hunter, with her prey right where she wanted it, coming closer to him. And her heel digging into him. Hard.

And he unwittingly projected that image into the mind of the telepath sitting in front of him, who blinked the picture away, trying to figure out where the hell it had come from, but not entirely disliking it...

The mental image did him in, instantly. And Warren found out just how so very in working order his elevator was, as all the blood from his brain finally let go of its tenuous grasp on the organ, and instantly rushed straight to his groin.  
  
Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph. God almighty, he wanted her.  
  
But he couldn't have her. And he had an apology to make. So he leaned forward, to fold his arms in supplication across her knees... but stopped, his eyes still holding fast to hers. "I need to ask permission to touch you, while I do this." He grinned up at her, unable to wipe the smile off his face, despite the sudden, most difficult feeling that his jeans were far too tight in a very specific area. "If you can't grant it, I'll understand. But I'm asking for it."

Good god, how could she possibly say no to _that_. Not quite trusting her voice, she kept her expression carefully controlled and nodded once.  
  
At her nod, he leaned forward a little more, and let his forearms rest just above her knees, folding his hands in a pleading gesture, as was appropriate. And just... looked at her for another moment. He fought very, _very_ hard not to think anymore. Any more images like that one of her with her foot on his...  
  
God. No. He was already about to embarrass himself in front of her-- if he didn't stop, it would be come totally inevitable. The press behind his fly was terribly distracting, at once irritating and undeniably (really goddamn) good, and if he would've found it possible to take his eyes from hers, he was certain he would've gotten himself into trouble somehow.  
  
Luckily, he couldn't. So he began, at first attempting to compose his face into a mask of solemnity. But giving up entirely when he realized that his attempts were only making him want to laugh even more. So he grinned up at her, hands folded, and began. "Jean, I beg your forgiveness for my insensitivity. Such a word should never be applied to you, considering the social connotation, and I was a horrible fool not to see that. I don't deserve to be forgiven, I'm completely hopeless, and I know it. But I'm begging you, just the same."

Jean gazed down into the smiling face that had already become so dear to her. Warren was a wonderfully sweet, funny man, and so terribly attractive. His beautiful blue eyes, his aristocratic nose and cheekbones, the gentle curve of his lips... she found herself drinking him in.  
  
She also found it mildly disturbing that she was enjoying his act so very, very much.  
Warren's words were delivered skillfully, the twinkle in his eyes betraying the fact that he found this whole situation far too amusing.  
  
He cocked his head at her questioningly. "Will that do, or do you need more? I'm prepared to give more, if that's what you want..."  
  
Oh god... he shouldn't have said that, because what he was _prepared_ to give involved maneuvering himself between her knees, putting his arms around her, and pulling her right into his lap, right there on the floor...  
  
_Not helping, Worthington. So. Not. Helping._

Raising an eyebrow, she smiled. "It's a good start, but you're not getting off that easily. Keep it coming."

Warren bit the inside of his cheek, and closed his eyes for just a second, wondering if she could _possibly_ have chosen worse (or better...) words for her instructions. Watching her lips form them... Christ, she might as well have been running her hands through his hair, at this point.  
  
He realized that he was sick, of course, at this point. No way he should be getting off on this like he was. So easily, as she had so astutely put it, whether she realized _how_ astutely or not. But hell. He just... didn't care at all. He opened his eyes, still smiling, and leaned on her a little more, the words falling off his lips easily in the pleasant haze the wine had created around his (now bloodless) brain. "I know I was wrong, and I will never use that word to refer to you again, I promise you that now. I know I've been thoughtless, and I will accept any punishment you see fit to give me, should my groveling at your feet not suffice. But please, I beg you, find it in your heart to forgive me. Because if you don't, I don't know how I'll sleep tonight."

How Warren's mother had ever managed to stay mad at that face, Jean didn't know. In fact, Jean rather suspected that Mrs. Worthington never _did_ stay angry with her son for long, and Jean was looking at the reason now. He was heartbreakingly adorable.  
  
He paused again, and raised his eyebrows. "How's that?"

Jean smiled. "That was perfect. You're forgiven."

Impulsively, she reached out, cupped his face and urged him to bow his head slightly. Then she leaned forward and dropped a tender kiss onto his forehead, lingering slightly longer than she should have, she suspected.

Her lips burned on his forehead. He wasn't imagining it. He hadn't even really been able to _feel_ his forehead a moment ago. And now, suddenly he could feel it perfectly. The spot where her lips had touched him, just. so. gently.  
  
Warren swallowed hard, and realized that he'd stopped breathing. And couldn't start again.  
  
Pulling away, she dropped her hands and scooted back onto the couch, looking down at him. "You're very good at this groveling, Warren. Are you sure you haven't done it before?" For a moment, he still couldn't reply. But he caught his breath, and pushed himself back up to the couch, trying desperately to shut out the way the hard fabric of his jeans rubbed against the _serious_ problem in his shorts underneath, and sat next to her. Close to her. But not touching.  
  
No. After that, he definitely wasn't going to be touching her. Because god. He was _so_ about to embarrass himself. He leaned over his lap, just a little, and turned to face her, pulling his wings up and around so they'd be comfortable brushing against the back of the couch. 

Jean swiveled to face Warren as he sat on the sofa next to her. She leaned heavily against the back of the couch, and rested her elbow on the edge, using her hand to prop her head up as she watched him.

"Never before, but I'm happy you were satisfied with the results. To be honest," he grinned, rather wickedly, unable to help himself, "I think I could get used to it. More entertaining than the movie, anyhow."

She couldn't help but grin back and laugh. "Well, if you want the practice, we'll just have to see how many more times you can manage to get so far over on my bad side that I feel the need to make you beg."  
  
Jean watched him for a moment, rather transfixed by the way Warren had tucked his wings around himself when he sat down on the couch, folded around and slightly forward. She couldn't help herself. She just _had_ to...

She lifted her head, freeing the hand closest to the back of the couch. Reaching out, she carefully, and oh-so-gently ran her fingers down the top edge of one of Warren's magnificent wings. Jean was surprised by how soft it was, how lovely it felt.

The sound of her laugh made him laugh too, and he was about to reply, but then... he felt it. Electric current, straight from her hand, through his wings, into his brain, and then straight _down_. Where he absolutely _did not_ need _any_ more stimulation at all.  
  
Unh... guh... oh... fuck.  
  
So hot in there, all the sudden. His mouth was frozen, partially open, his considered reply all but squashed to a pulp, forgotten, as his hyper-sensitive wings very nearly shuddered under her gentle fingers.  
  
Ohgodohgodohgod.oh.no.  
  
His heart shot into his throat, and he could swear he was about to start sweating. And dizzy. God. So. dizzy.  
  
And then, she did it again. Carefully. Just smoothing her delicate fingers so lightly over his feathers, over the curve of the top ridge of his wing, and down the side, pulling softly at his feathers, so that the skin below, sensitive enough to feel out the air current, to tell him instinctively what to do, where to go, when he was in the air, tingled. Burned. And god... he'd never been touched... like that. No one ever touched his wings, not even the doc. And definitely not... like that. And _most_ definitely not when he was... like this.  
  
And he was so hard it _hurt_. And amazingly bloody lucky that he wasn't in need of new shorts, as a matter of fact. Because if she did that one more time...  
  
He fought not to make a sound, to keep his sudden intake of breath silent, to retain his already extremely questionable control over himself. Reply. He was supposed to be answering her. Oh Christ, what the _hell_ were they talking about?  
  
Begging.  
  
At that moment Warren Worthington was absolutely certain, if he'd ever had any doubt before, that there was no god.

"I guess I'll have to think of new ways to get myself into trouble," he forced out, hoping his voice didn't sound too strangled, glancing around for something else, _anything_ else to look at but her eyes, running over his wings like that. Like she loved looking at them. "Since I can't use... that word anymore."

The clock. Oh god, the clock. "Hell," he swore, mildly, "Jeannie, it's past eleven." He managed to smile at her again, despite the fact that his head was spinning and he was positively _aching_ for her to touch him again and desperate for her not to. "I... don't think you should try to go home." Which, of course, meant that she had to stay with him. Which, of course... oh god. "If you don't think anyone would mind, there's a spare room down here, and you're welcome to stay."

She shook her head. "You're right, there's no way I could drive right now. I'd never make it home in one piece," she smirked at herself, feeling a little silly. "If you don't mind me staying, that would be great." She paused, trying to make her foggy brain function in a semblance of normal behavior. "I'd better call home and let them know not to expect me back tonight. Do you by any chance have something I could borrow to sleep in? I'll have to wear these clothes home tomorrow, so I don't exactly want to spend the whole night in them, too." She wrinkled her nose at the thought.

He smiled, laughing softly at the irritated face she was pulling. Made her look very young. Made him relax just a little.  
  
Even if he could still _feel_ her fingers on him.  
  
She had no idea, of course, and he knew it. No idea what she did to him. And it was fine. It was expected. It was good, even, because if she knew, he didn't think he could look her in they eye again. And that would be a damn shame.  
  
_Relax, get her some clothes, and go sleep it off, Worthington. And try not to think of the girl in your guest room. Try really bloody hard._  
  
"Yeah, the phone is right there on the end table," he gestured, moving to stand up, careful to turn his back to her, and head straight for the stairs. He was alright for now, but if he didn't manage to relax before too long, this whole walking thing was going to become a lot more painful in short order. "I'll find something for you to wear." He started up the stairs to his loft, looking over at her as he did so. "I'll be right back."  
  
When he got to the top of the stairs, and out of sight... he walked to his closet and stopped. Gripped the closet door, as he heard the sound of her voice, speaking unintelligibly downstairs. Dragged his hand through his hair, clenching at it. Stared at his rows of shirts. Thought about absolutely nothing, for just a few, quiet, moments. _Forced_ himself to calm the hell down, to stop acting like some kind of stupid adolescent who'd never been around a girl in his entire life.  
  
And though it didn't really solve his problems... he did feel a little better. As long as he didn't think about her fingers. On his feathers.  
  
He pulled a shirt out of the back of the closet, one he hadn't mutilated yet, and felt it. It was pretty soft, not that starchy material he was used to for work. His mother had given it to him last year, but he'd just never had the inclination to doctor it up. And all his T-shirts and the like were already cut to hell. He considered grabbing her some shorts, but thought about how small her waist was... and realized that it'd be a lost cause. She'd have to tie them in knots to keep them on. So this would have to do. It would be pretty long on her anyhow, and girls wore night shirts to bed anyhow...  
  
At least, he figured they did. Not like he had a sister or anything, to know for sure.  
  
He started back down the stairs then, shirt in hand, and came back to her as she was just hanging up the phone, handing it over. "Everything okay?"

She shrugged. "I just left a message, someone will pick it up soon, I'm sure." Jean fingered the shirt he'd handed her. "Since you don't have work and I don't have school tomorrow, we could stay up all night and had a slumber party, complete with bad movies and pillow fights," she said with a grin. "But seriously, don't let me keep you up. Just let me know when you want to go to bed."

Warren didn't bother to mention that she was welcome to keep him up any time she liked. He knew what that would sound like. And that wasn't even how he meant it. Not matter how much he wanted her, that wasn't how he meant it.  
  
But he wasn't ready for bed yet, even though her eyes looked tired. And he knew better than to go to bed drunk, with a head full of wine-- waking up was never his favorite moment of the day, but that would only make it exponentially worse. So he raised an eyebrow at her and grinned. "Pillow fights huh? Let's try that next time. We should stay up awhile, considering the intoxication levels at the moment. I'll get us some water." He picked the remote up from the couch, where it had landed during their recent wrestling match, and handed it to her. "Find something that won't bore you to death, I'll be right back."  
  
Warren looked at her just a moment longer, as she accepted the clicker from him, and then turned to the kitchen. Trying not to think at all. Just smiling. The worst of his problems seemed to be over, really, now that he had managed to get a little distance from her. And really... was it such a terrible problem to have?  
  
Wait. Definitely the wine talking. But then, everything was rather fuzzy and grey right now, so why shouldn't the morality of his situation be, as well? Who cares if she was someone's girlfriend! After all, his only sins here tonight were in his head...

He returned to her with two glasses of water, and sat, leaving almost a full couch cushion between them. Not because he wanted to, of course. Simply because he was having a sudden flash of manly conscience-- despite the fact that he knew that on her part, it was all completely innocent. Because it was anything but on his. Mostly. And he had a sudden drunk-somber moment as he remembered that he ought to respect that fact.

Lost in thought, Jean was plotting how to engage Warren in a pillow fight "next time", trying not to laugh aloud at the mental image of her whacking him senseless with a giant, fluffy pillow. He was a good match for her, as far as rough-housing went. He'd managed to fend off her earlier attack, but not too easily. The bastard had actually been _laughing_ at her when she'd been beating him. She had to admit, it really had been too much fun. And his apology... Warren was definitely a man who knew how to make a woman feel special. He was very, very good.

Suddenly Warren was sitting on the couch again, and Jean realized she hadn't been paying any attention at all to what was on TV.  
  
He laughed, and handed her a glass. "Stop anywhere, then. Nick at Nite or CNN or anything."

Accepting the glass with a smile, she watched as he settled back into the couch... far away from her. Jean frowned. No, that wouldn't do at all. Tucking her legs up on the cushion, she slid over to where Warren was sitting. She dropped the remote into his hand, then snuggled up against him, sliding her arm through his so that she was essentially hugging it. Resting her head on his shoulder, Jean sighed contently. "You choose. Doesn't matter to me," she told him.

Frozen for a moment, swimming through the fog in his mind, Warren tried to process what was happening. And found that really, he couldn't.  
  
Jean. Confidante, who had listened to his story, with no judgment, no pretense, nothing but interest. Flirt, who had winked at him, enjoyed the odd innuendo, laughed with him for hours. Intellectual, who had talked about art, music, the theater, who understood the world around her like no one else ever could. Fighter, who stood up for the entire world, fought almost certain death, said what she wanted when she wanted.  
  
Wrapped around his arm like a little girl. Warm and solid and resting against his shoulder, like some kind of anchor to reality.  
  
Warren closed his eyes for a minute, and smiled. Thinking that, at least for the moment, it was enough.  
  
He flipped to some sitcom on Nick at Nite, vaguely registering that he used to watch it with his parents when he was very small. They sat, sipping at their water, commenting now and then on the merits of 1980's sitcom writing, as opposed to the absolute shit on TV now. But after she'd finished, Warren noticed her breathing had become very even, and her grip on the empty glass was rather lax. He moved, just a little, and saw that her eyes were closed, and she looked... well, asleep.  
  
Sorely tempted to let her stay that way, leaning against him, angelic in her rest (far more than he could ever be, he was sure, wings or no), he knew he couldn't. She'd needed to change her clothes. She'd feel much better in the morning if she did, after all. So no matter how much he wanted to wrap his wings around them both, and just let her stay there...  
  
He let his hand, resting lightly on her thigh, grip her and give her a small shake. "Jeannie, we're falling asleep," he whispered, turning his face toward her now, so that his lips were close to her ear, her hair brushing against his forehead. "I'll get us some more water while you change for bed, alright?"

Making grumbly sleepy noises, Jean tried to bury her head against Warren's arm. But the amused chuckle so close to her ear finally roused her from her nap. She looked up at him, eyes hooded and glaring accusingly at him for waking her.  
  
"You're so mean," Jean muttered, pushing off him and into a sitting position. She blinked once, very slowly and deliberately before snagging the shirt from the cushion beside her. Her body felt ridiculously heavy as she stood up and shuffled off down the hallway.

Warren was still laughing at her as she padded away, shaking his head. Goddamn, it simply wasn't fair. From sex kitten to adorable in less than an hour. Like it was nothing. And, he realized, it probably _was_ nothing to her. But to him, it was. Definitely.  
  
Once she was gone, he stood, still smiling softly, and collected their glasses, then headed to the kitchen to refill them. It wasn't that long ago that they'd tapped the second bottle, but he wasn't feeling too badly at the moment. Still drunk, yes. But it was a pleasant, fuzzy feeling, as it should be. Not the careening out of control feeling he didn't enjoy at all. Just a nice, warm, cloudy feeling. That, and the feeling of her pressing against his arm, wrapped around it like that... Yeah. Not so bad. He was doing alright, really.

He returned to the couch, deciding to wait out... whatever the hell she was doing in there, and watch some more sitcom. Before too long Warren heard her. And looked over to the bathroom door.  
  
She was coming toward him, eyelids heavy, hair loose now and falling over her shoulders, just wild enough to give the impression of someone who'd been awakened from a long sleep. The shirt was huge on her, and she had the cuffs rolled up several times. And the hem hung down... to mid-thigh. Almost.  
  
And good god, he'd almost forgotten how lovely her legs were. He'd gotten quite the view, in that black dress she'd been wearing the other night, with its dangerous slit... but this was something else entirely. Long, perfectly sculpted white legs, stretching so far... down to the floor, to her prettily polished toenails.  
  
He almost had to look away. She'd never looked better. And he wasn't sure she ever could. Something at once childish-- sleepy and innocent and wearing a shirt that was five times too big for her-- and completely grown up-- magnetic and swaying and the flash of her fantastic ivory legs. Something that made his mouth fall open, just a little, as he watched her coming nearer and nearer. Made his heart pound fast enough to make him feel almost delightfully sick to his stomach. Unable to speak. He knew, somehow, that he'd meant to stand, to offer her the water, to show her to her room. But he couldn't. Just. Couldn't.  
  
Jean walked around the coffee table, and climbed back onto the sofa, resuming her previous position. Only this time, she lifted Warren's arm and placed it around her shoulders, snuggling close and resting her head against his chest.  
  
Deep breath... closed eyes... arm around her tight. He could feel her against his chest, breathing. Her hair pooling against him, falling down over her face, smelling like vanilla and citrus, so close to him. The gentle rise and fall of her shoulders as she settled in. Her hand, resting lightly on his thigh, burning through his jeans. The strangely small, solid weight of her. All of her.  
  
She was asleep before the first commercial. He let his cheek come to rest on the top of her head, lightly. Head swimming in wine and her. Breathingherfeelingher. Not thinking anymore. Not even able to. He stretched his wings out, behind them, sliding one around her, curving it inward, just so. So that she was wrapped up in his arms _and_ in his wings. Felt the feathers at the fringe brushing against her bare leg, tucked up beside her.  
  
And stayed like that. For hours. Wrapped around her like a blanket. Awake.  
  
Maybe it was wrong. Maybe if she wasn't drunk, she would never have clung to him like that. And maybe just because she had, it didn't mean he could... do this. And feel like... this, while he did it.  
  
But he couldn't help it. Not at all. And he'd take what he could get.

* * *

Our dearest reviewers, oh how we love thee!

Lady-Snape7-- Believe me, I tried to dislike Jean too. Jen makes it impossible... damn her! The text finger thing had my internal Warren laughing his feathery butt off, let me tell you. She's a spitfire... and god does he love it. Glad you're enjoying! –Beaubier

Foenixfyre-- Ahhh, someone who understands the joys of text-messaging during this or that boring session! So you see where they're coming from! The blending of styles, actually, should be even better in the previous chapters now, as Jen has taken the time and effort to go back and hack through them, to make them less repetitive. Thank you very much for the comments (and yes, the compliments...) –Beaubier (And congrats on your recent marriage! –Jen)

The Scribe3-- As a giant fan of old school Warren/Bobby/Hank/Scott/Jean moments, I must say that we'd be foolish not to take your advice and include at least a few moments! Glad you made your way through it, and hope you're digging the new parts. –Beaubier

DoubleL27-- As one who followed our original romps with these two, the opinion on the subject of its translation to fic is priceless. Thank so much for that, greatly appreciated. We're going for the slow (painful) build up, definitely. Cause god knows we all love to torture them. And yes... yes. Even Jean needs options. Or, at least, one option. –Beaubier

Sue Penkivech -- Your admission is in writing, and I don't know about BB, but I'm going frame it. And then I'll have it to throw back in your face anytime you start in on how much you dislike Jean or Warren. The text messaging was fun for us – it was the first fresh interaction we got to write. Everything else (as you well know) has been RP posts. But we're almost on to all new stuff now (after the next chapter). Oh, the fun that will be had! Maybe, just maybe we can come up with something for Bobby to do at some point. If you ask us nicely. ;P –Jen

Kaminarimon -- Mmmmm...s'mores...drools Ok, sorry, I'm done now. Thank you! I'm glad you're liking the story, and that our combined styles are working for you. It's not everyone's cup of tea, we realize, but oh well. Most of the art stuff went over my head, too. Which is why Jean doesn't actually say an awful lot about the specifics. Beaubier's the art student, not me. Thank you again, and I hope you keep reading and enjoying! –Jen

Furygrrl -- You've got me this time instead of Beaubier. Mwaaaaahahaha! coughs Sorry. I'm done now. But yes, we do love torturing our darling characters. That the readers might find it equally as torturous is just a bonus. ;P And I agree – BB's Warren is just wonderful. I wasn't even sold on a Warren/Jean relationship when we started this in the RPG, but after about a dozen posts the Jean in my head starting asking "Scott who?" And I love Scooter dearly, so for me to even entertain the thought of breaking up my favorite X-Men couple says something about how fantastic this Warren is. Anyway, thank you again for your kind words, and I hope you're still liking the story! –Jen


	8. Chapter 5

_**Chapter 5**_

_Week 2: Saturday_

His eyes fluttered open, and his wings shivered, just slightly.  
  
But they felt cramped, couldn't move much.  
  
Disoriented, Warren looked around, felt the press of a warm body against his side, on his chest, under his arm... and remembered.  
  
He looked at the clock, blinking heavily. Five AM. The last time he'd looked, it had been four... something. And that meant he'd fallen asleep. Here, on the couch, sitting up. With Jean Grey wrapped up in his arms. In his wings.  
  
He wondered, for a moment, if it was possible for someone's heart to simply explode.  
  
Jesus. What the hell had he been _thinking_? Why on earth hadn't alarm bells been ringing in his head the very _moment_ he'd come up with the stupid idea to let her stay there, wrapped up in him? Better yet, the moment she walked out of the bathroom _in his dress shirt_ for god's sake, and curled up beside him? Christ! Did he _like_ the pain?  
  
Carefully, gently, he began to disentangle himself from her. Little by little, desperate not to wake her. She couldn't know, she could never know. Flirting, touching, laughing- not a problem.  
  
Spending the night wrapped up in each other -- crossing the line.  
  
He managed to relocate her, still breathing slowly, evenly, eyes closed, to his arms, holding her as if she were a child. He stood, holding her close against his chest, surprised at how very light she felt as he carried her toward the bedroom. He tried not to look at her face. Tried very hard.  
  
Warren kicked the door to the spare room open, quietly, and deposited her on the bed, with extreme caution. Her waking up with him standing over her bed would be almost as bad as her waking up like that on the couch, really. And god, he didn't want things to get... uncomfortable. Wanted to keep up the act as long as he could. Pretend it was nothing to him. Like it was nothing to her.  
  
She burrowed into her pillow almost immediately. He tried not to watch her, stretching out just a little, every move elegant and graceful, even in her sleep. And pulled the blanket over her before leaving.  
  
_Tired. Don't think. Go to sleep. Forget that. It never happened._  
  
Stretching his wings, straight out from his back, he ascended the stairs, and started changing. He hated sleeping in his clothes. Always felt horrid the next morning. Particularly in jeans. He pulled on his sweats, dropped the shirt on the floor, and fell onto his bed, on his stomach.  
  
And blinked at his night stand. Little black box. With the necklace in it.  
  
Warren reached out with sudden, violent irritation, opened the drawer and knocked the box into it. Then slammed the drawer shut.  
  
And tried to go to sleep.

X

He shoved himself up to sitting, dragging his hands across his face fitfully, feeling the rough stubble that was inevitable every morning (hell, every night, even), and sighed. No rest for the wicked, it seemed.  
  
Never could sleep very well with alcohol in his system, and anyhow, he was thirsty. He brushed his teeth, splashed some water on his face, and decided that he was awake for the day.  
  
He stretched his wings out, to the side and up, trying to wake them up again, as he went down the stairs. And stopped at the foot of them, witnessing the travesty that was his coffee table with newly sober eyes.  
  
And laughed, rubbing absently at his neck and then his scratchy face, shaking his head.  
  
_Put some coffee on, clean up this disaster, and maybe look around for something I can feed her if and when she wakes up. And she'll never know. I'll smile and give her coffee, and she'll never ever know. I can do this._

X

Rolling over and burying her face further into her pillow, Jean stretched, groaning quietly. As she rolled back over and relaxed, she opened her eyes... and she had no idea where she was.  
  
After a moment of panic, the events of the previous evening came back to her. She was at Warren's apartment, and this must be his guest room. Right.  
  
Chinese food and lots of wine, a painful movie and some groveling. Oh yes, it had been a great evening. Jean blushed to herself as she realized she must've fallen asleep before actually going to bed, since she knew she'd never seen this room before. Poor Warren must've had to carry her to bed. She'd have to make sure she apologized.  
  
Throwing back the blanket, Jean climbed out of the very large, very comfortable bed and stretched again, arms high above her head, back arched. She smiled. All things considered, Jean felt better rested than she had in weeks. And she was in a rather good mood for first thing in the morning. Running her fingers quickly through her hair, she left the privacy of the bedroom and trotted down the hall to the bathroom.  
  
The reflection that greeted her wasn't as bad as she'd been expecting. No bags under her eyes, hair not too much of a mess. Now, if only she could do something about the awful fuzziness that was in her mouth. She searched under the vanity, and emerged victorious with a still-packaged toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. Minutes later, her teeth no long felt furry and she wasn't afraid of breathing morning breath all over Warren. With a final pass at her hair with her fingers she emerged from the bathroom, still wearing only the shirt Warren had loaned her, and headed toward the living room...  
  
Which was now spotless. Jean paused in the doorway, knowing that they'd left it a minor disaster area by the end of the evening. What time had Warren gotten up to do all this? She felt terribly guilty. The mess had been all because of her invasion of his apartment. He shouldn't have had to clean it up, and certainly not alone.  
  
Jean could hear him moving around in the kitchen, and padded softly across the living room. She reached the entry to the kitchen and saw that he was, in fact, busily cleaning up in there as well. He was wearing nothing but a pair of sweat pants, and Jean's breath caught in her throat at the sight of his magnificent upper body and those gorgeous wings. He was a truly beautiful man. She knew she shouldn't be thinking that, but she just couldn't help herself. Leaning on the door jam, Jean crossed her arms and watched him for a moment, admiring him, completely undetected by the object of her observation.

"So not only do you serve great food and wine, grovel wonderfully, and tuck me into bed after I've fallen asleep, but you clean, too? I think you may, in fact, be the perfect man," Jean teased, smiling.

He turned to face her, shaking his head, absently pulling at his blonde hair as he tried _very_ hard not to look below her eyes. Jesus. She still had his shirt on.  
  
She looked _so_ good in his shirt. Leaning in the doorway, hair slightly mussed from the pillow. Smirking.  
  
"You've been talking to my mother, haven't you?" He grinned, after just a moment. "Don't believe a word she says, if I fall off that pedestal, I'll break something important."  
  
Tearing his eyes, quite painfully, away from her, he finished wiping off the counter. Still grinning. God, Jean in the morning. He never thought he could be so happy to see anything in the morning. "And don't speak too soon-- you haven't seen me try to cook yet. Which is why all I really have to offer you is cereal, unless you want me to burn down the towers. However," he reached up and pulled down a mug, "I do have coffee. Interested?"

Jean laughed. "The only thing you'd be liable to damage in that fall is your ego," she told him, smiling to make sure he knew she was just joking. "And thank you, I'd love coffee."

He obliged, laughing at her crack. He refrained from telling her that if she only knew the high opinion Katherine Worthington had of her son, she might be a little more worried about broken wings as well as egos if he ever screwed up so badly that he really did fall from the pedestal his mother placed him on.  
  
But no need to sound bitter. How could he, with her smiling?  
  
In his dress shirt.

Jean pushed off the door frame and walked across the kitchen to where he was standing, watching as Warren filled a mug for her. "Thank you." Accepting the drink, she added a little milk and some sugar, stirring it thoroughly. "You don't cook, hmm? Every bachelor needs to know how to cook. It helps impress the ladies, you know," Jean added with a grin, then motioned to the refrigerator. "So do you actually have any food in that thing, or is it just for show? Because I could try to scrounge up a real breakfast for us, if you want. I'm not a great cook by any stretch of the imagination, but I can get by." 

Warren considered this proposal, rather impressed, scratching at the light trail that started not too far under his navel and disappeared into his drawstring waistband, in his usual absentminded-morning-thinking gesture, considering. "Good question, actually. I seem to remember eating some randomly selected vegetables from in here the other day." He opened up the fridge at that, and glanced around inside. Eggs, milk, cheese, bread, the random vegetables, various condiments... basics. Which was the one _good_ thing about the otherwise unnecessary maid-- she brought him food.

Jean tried not to stare too hard at him, at the way the muscles rippled when he moved, the elegant arch of his wings, the way his sweat pants sat so low on his narrow hips. Her brow furrowed. What was wrong with her? _Pull it together, Jean,_ she grumbled to herself. _Stop ogling your **friend**._  
  
"Yes, I apparently have food," he announced, looking over his shoulder, and dropping his wings to do so with something of a sheepish smile on his face. "I'm a carry-out kind of guy usually. Considering my questionable skills in the kitchen. Maybe you could... show me how to make something? If you're sure you don't mind. You know, so I can impress the ladies, in the future?"  
  
Oh. Now that had bitterness potential too. So not going there.

All of a sudden, and for reasons she flatly refused to consider, Jean wasn't too thrilled with the idea of teaching him to cook so he could make breakfast for some other girl. But she smiled back at him, and nodded. She wandered over to where he was standing and peered past him into the fridge, taking a quick inventory. "We can definitely work with this," Jean told him.

X

A while later, mushrooms had been sautéed, and cheese had been grated. Warren was slowly remembering why he'd given up on cooking years ago. And why the take-out delivery people knew him by his first name.  
  
Cooking was aggravating, was the thing.

Jean was currently sitting on the kitchen counter, watching in amusement as Warren tried to whisk eggs in a large glass bowl. "You need to loosen your wrist," she tried to instruct him. "Right now you're just beating them. If you want them nice and light and fluffy, you need to whisk them."

Watching for another few seconds, Jean finally hopped off the counter and slipped in beside him. She wrapped her hand gently around his, her fingers aligning with his own. She didn't even notice that in her attempt to get in close to him, her free hand slipped under his wings and settled on his back, just above the waist band of his pants. 

He suppressed a shiver, at the feeling of her warm hand over his, of the other one sliding over the small of his back, coming to rest there, lightly. Mmmm. Maybe cooking wasn't _that_ aggravating. He could get used to it...  
  
"Here, just relax your wrist completely," Jean told him gently, trying to not smile at his frustration. She then taught him the proper motion, leading his hand with her own. "See? It's a much looser motion. You can see how that changes the texture of the eggs." Releasing Warren's hand to let him try whisking on his own, Jean leaned against the counter smiling at him, thoroughly enjoying their morning together.

He took a deep breath, recovering from the close contact, and he kept up what she'd shown him as best he could, thinking it was a little better. And he tried very hard not to be disappointed that she hadn't stayed that close to him a little longer. _Take what you get, don't ask for more. It's dangerous enough as it is._  
  
But he told the little voice to shut the hell up. And smiled over at her. "This is excellent, Jeannie. It's only been twice, but so far you seem to leave me with these great life-changing epiphanies, when you're done with me. And this is the one this time. Eggs. I can officially... almost... make eggs." He stopped whisking then, and peered back into the bowl, giving the eggs a tentative poke, and his wings a slight ruffling, mostly out of curiosity. "They're all the same color now... I think. Are they done?"

God, Jean loved his wings. They were so incredibly expressive. She had a feeling that if she spent enough time with Warren in an environment where he didn't need to wear his harness, she'd be able to tell exactly what he was thinking simply by watching his wings. Who needed telepathy?  
  
She leaned over, brushing against his arm, to inspect his work. "Yup, good job," she congratulated, grinning up at him. "Now we just pour them in the pan and make sure they don't burn. Omelets are really easy that way." Turning to the large preheated skillet, Jean poured the eggs, listening to them sizzle as they hit the hot surface. She used her telekinesis to float the bowl over to the sink and fill it with water. Leaning against the counter, Jean crossed her legs at the ankle, staying close to the stove so she could keep an eye on the eggs.

Yeah, cooking was definitely alright. Kept her close to him. Looking over his shoulder, leaning on him, showing him how to... do stuff. He could deal with this. Likely forever.  
  
"And what did you mean, I leave you with life-changing epiphanies? Eggs, ok. Strange, but ok," she laughed. "What was the first one?"

He shrugged a bit, leaning on the counter to almost match her stance, wings tucking up, reaching into the frying pan and grabbing a mushroom, then popping it into his mouth. "Made the whole Xavier Institute thing climb back to the forefront of my thoughts. Not that I ever forgot it, just that... well, you know." He gave a small half-smile at that, reaching for another mushroom. She knew about his parents, and his situation. She'd understand. "So I decided I'd better get a move on and... you know... _do_ something with these wings," he gave them a little shake, just for emphasis, and his smile turned fuller, brighter now, "other than rescuing the odd person in distress. While important, and don't get me wrong, I love it...," he shrugged, again, shaking his head. "Just seems like I should be facing the world, like you all do, every day. I'm not saying today. I'm just saying that you made me think. And that's a start."

Jean found herself smiling more and more as Warren spoke. She had no idea her gentle prodding had actually gotten through to him. And the way his face lit up when he talked about saving people... it made her grin back. She couldn't help it. He just looked so _happy_. He obviously wanted to use his gift, but just wasn't quite sure how else he could do it.  
  
He popped the mushroom into his mouth again, and raised an eyebrow at the eggs in the pan, impressed with the pancake effect this approach was having. God, he was clueless in the kitchen. "And eggs are pretty amazing, really. A strange epiphany, maybe, but for me, it's pretty damn useful." With that, he looked back up at her, scratching at the back of his neck, suddenly just the tiniest bit self-conscious about his... well... stupidity in the kitchen. And grinned.

"Good, so now at least I know you won't starve to death if I'm not around to make you breakfast every morning," Jean grinned back at him, terribly amused by the almost boyish, embarrassed expression on his face. It made her stomach drop just a bit.

Warren really had to bite his lip at that point. Because god, the very idea of her being here every morning... not necessarily to make him breakfast, of course... to hell with breakfast... Hm. Not so good. Better keep eating.  
  
Warren reached out to grab another mushroom, and Jean grasped his wrist in a telekinetic hold, keeping him from reaching the pan. "You keep that up and there won't be any left for the omelet." She raised an eyebrow at him in amusement.

"Busted," he grinned, wiggling his fingers just a bit to test her fantastic, invisible grip.

"Speaking of which, it's now time to flip this beast." Jean released his hand from the telekinetic hold, and smiled at him. "Now, I could flip this the easy way," she said, tapping her temple, "but that won't help you. There are a few ways of doing it, but we'll start you off small. Grab that spatula." Warren obeyed, looking at the utensil almost suspiciously, making Jean snicker. "Relax, it's not he enemy. Now, the trick is twofold - not to break the cooked underside, and not to splash the raw stuff on top all over the stove. So first, run the tip of the spatula around the edge of the pan, just under the eggs." She watched, nodding approvingly. "Good. Now _carefully_ slide the blade all the way underneath, until it's in the middle of the pan. Right. Ok, now in a smooth, easy motion, flip it all over."

Warren did as he was told, gently flipping the thing over and... Good god. It worked. He grinned, in spite of the fact that he knew full well how utterly ridiculous it was of him to be so goddamn proud of flipping an omelet. But he couldn't help it. "My god, I _can_ be taught!" He laughed and put an arm around her shoulders, completely without thinking about it, giving her a squeeze. "And here I thought there was no hope."  
  
It was about then that he realized that he was standing in front of his stove, his arm around Jean, in his dress shirt and nothing else, himself only half dressed, looking down at an omelet that he was far too proud of.  
  
And he laughed again. God, the girl had the strangest effect on him. Angsty all morning, and she came into the room... and fixed it.

Laughing at Warren's obvious delight, Jean slipped her arms around him, one behind him and one in front, and hugged him in return. He was such a surprising man. In some ways so much older than his years, responsible and serious, cultured and sophisticated; in others, so very young, fun-loving, sweet, funny, self-effacing, and very much the 20-year-old that he was. She loved the paradox he presented.  
  
"Ok, Emeril, we're not done yet," Jean teased, giving him a final squeeze before disentangling herself from under his arm. "We give it a minute or so to cook on that side. When it's done, we add the mushrooms - the few that are left," she added pointedly, cocking an eyebrow at him in mock annoyance, "and the cheese. Then we put it under the broiler in the oven until it all melts."  
  
She walked Warren through the final steps. When the finished product was finally removed from the oven, the cheese was bubbling perfectly and it smelled divine.  
  
"The rest is easy. Just fold this side over, like so, cut it in half, and voila! You've successfully made your first omelet," Jean grinned at him. Depositing half the omelet onto a plate, she handed it and a fork to Warren. "Give it a try, see how you like your first culinary masterpiece."

X

Jean liked this very much. The familiarity of it all...it was wonderful. She was tucked into the corner of the sofa, legs folded toward the arm, so she was slightly facing Warren, and she couldn't seem to stop smiling.

"Together, Jean," Warren raised his coffee mug, now comfortable on the couch with his plate in his hand, and a nice little spot for his mug on the end table nearby, "We make a good cook!"  
  
"Okay," he grinned, after he'd sipped at the bitter, hot stuff, and put it back, "Really, you make a good cook, and I am but your humble apprentice. I'm impressed."  
  
And truly, he was. This omelet was heavenly. Hands down. Of course, he was also half-starved. He always was, the morning after he had a bit much to drink. But he'd been a little too comatose earlier to realize it. Jean's lessons... Jean's presence, had awakened him properly, however, and he was now attempting to eat at a dignified pace.  
  
Dignified, despite the fact that they were sprawled on the couch eating breakfast and watching CNN in their pajamas.  
  
Correction-- him in his sweats, her in his shirt.  
  
In. His. Shirt.  
  
God.  
  
"So," he made himself ask, just to get his mind off that, gathering up another forkful of omelet, "What's the plan for you today? Anything exciting?"

The question was asked just as she popped a piece of omelet into her mouth, so she just shook her head while she chewed. _Homework, lots of it. I'll probably go through the books I got from the library yesterday. It's supposed to be a beautiful day, so I might even go out and sit by the pool or in the gardens to read,_ she sent to him telepathically, instead of waiting until she was done eating.

Warren cocked an eyebrow at her telepathic trick again, chewing happily at his omelet. For some reason... he liked that. He wasn't sure if it was because she felt close enough to him to do it, or if it was the closeness of the action itself... but he liked it. He knew it was silly-- things like that should make him wary. But she'd explained herself, the first time, and he trusted her...  
  
He trusted her. Yes. Uncanny, really.  
  
Finally she swallowed, and smiled at him, eyes sparkling mischievously. "So when do you think you might be able to find time in your busy schedule to come out to Bayville?"

He pretended to be thinking very hard about his schedule. "Well... let's see... there's the meeting today... I have that business trip all this week... and then there's the trip to Paris, and that convention... so I guess in... about a month..." Shaking his head, he could no longer keep a straight face, and started to laugh, just a little, "Busy schedule... ha. I could come tomorrow, if you wanted."  
  
Whoa. Yeah, probably should've said, "If that would be possible," or "If that fits in with the X-Men's plans," or... something that didn't quite make it sound like he was coming for _her_... Because he really wasn't. Not entirely. He did need to visit, she was right... absolutely right.  
  
To hell with it. She'd understand.

"How about next weekend? I don't know everyone else's plans, but I'm sure at least some of the others will be around. And I'll protect you from any of the scary ones, don't worry," she told him with a wink.  
  
Stretching one long leg out in front of her, Jean propped it on the coffee table, keeping it slightly bent at the knee. She'd been getting cramped sitting all curled up. Nursing her coffee and eating the admittedly delicious omelet, she decided this was as content as she could remember being in a very long time.

Warren nodded, finishing up his food, deciding that next weekend might not be such a bad idea. It wasn't as if he had anything to do... and it wasn't as if he didn't want to go visit Xavier's without some kind of agenda. Certainly, it made him a bit nervous. Even if he wasn't sure why. But...  
  
Too early. Too hungry. No thinking. Food.  
  
_And no staring at the way her leg is stretched out there, either, Worthington. None of this creepy stalker behavior. She's a friend. A good friend._  
  
Jean finished the last bite of her omelet and placed her empty plate on her lap, glancing at the clock. "I guess I should get out of your hair, get home and start studying," she told him with a quiet sigh. She'd have been happy staying right where she was for the rest of the day, to be honest. Suddenly the books downstairs in her SUV didn't hold much appeal. "I'll help you clean up before I go, though."

"No, no," he said, instantly. He stood and took her plate from her, then balanced it on top of his own. "I'll take care of it. You're a guest, after all."

Jean watched as he headed off to the kitchen with their dirty plates, admiring, once again, the view of him from behind. She had already become enamored with his wings, they were just so beautiful... and the man they were attached to wasn't half bad either, she had to admit. A light blush warmed her cheeks.  
  
He took a few steps toward the kitchen, but stopped after a moment, took a deep breath, and turned around, smiling at her. "And yeah, I'll come next weekend. As long as no one minds."

"Of course no one would mind. Why would they?" Jean pushed herself off the couch and followed him into the kitchen, unable to just sit there doing nothing while he cleaned up. "I've told you before, you're welcome to visit anytime. Just show up, if you want. No need to even call ahead," she told him with a grin. "There's always _someone_ around."  
  
Jean brushed past him, taking the plates from his hand. Walking over to the sink, she started rinsing the bowls and plates they'd dirtied. "I'll rinse, you load the dishwasher, ok?" she suggested with a smile that told him, she hoped, that he really didn't have a choice but to let her help. 

X

After their almost frighteningly domestic clean-up session, they parted ways to hit their respective showers, upstairs for Warren, downstairs for Jean.  
  
And Warren tried very hard not to think about the fact that she was right downstairs, practically underneath him, doing the exact same thing that he was. And no doubt looking really fantastic doing it. Because that was not going to be conducive to a quick shower and shave. No. Definitely not. He turned the water to cold, however, and that sped things up quite a bit.  
  
A careful shave, a moment's drying off, and he was pulling on his clothes. Into the black slacks he'd pulled out of the closet for the day, the pinstripe button-down and the harness, then the jacket over top. His wings twitched in protest, as always, as he tightened the straps, as the jacket drug over his feathers, irritating them for just a moment.  
  
And he allowed himself a quick sigh, as he glanced into the mirror. Back to unspectacular, boring businessman Warren. Off to what promised to be a very irritating lunch meeting, trying to patch up the damaged relationship with the Van Guilders.  
  
For a while there, he'd really felt like... something more. It was just her, of course. He knew that. But he really couldn't blame himself for being disappointed.

When he made his way down the stairs, Jean was emerging from the bedroom, bag in hand, hair wet and curly and clinging to her face and shoulders, clothes back in place.  
  
And he very nearly sighed again. Seized by an almost uncontrollable urge to touch her hair, fascinated by the way it clung in looping curls to her cheeks, to her shirt, he froze himself in place. And just smiled. "Well, looks like it's off to work with us." He decided to play Ward to her June Cleaver one last time, straightening his tie out. "Have a nice day, dear."

Jean laughed and grinned at him. "No, it's off to work for _you_ darling. I'm going to go have a torrid affair with the pool boy," she said sweetly. Grasping his arm lightly for balance, she stood on her toes to drop a kiss on his (oh-so-soft and clean-shaven) cheek. "But yes, have a wonderful day, sweetheart." 

Warren thought his grin would split his face, and laughed aloud. Good god, she was wonderful.  
  
The faint scent of his aftershave lingered as she pulled away, laughing softly. "So you're coming by next weekend, right? For sure?" Jean asked, trying to make it clear that at this point, she would accept no excuses. "I'm going to make sure I'm around, so I'll be really pissed off if you stand me up," she added with a wink, squeezing his arm gently when she realized she still held it. Letting her hand drop, she smiled gently at him. "I really am looking forward to it."

"Me too," he said, with more sincerity than he'd had occasion to muster in quite a long time. "I'll be there. I'll call beforehand, don't wait around for me." He started for the door, at that, and opened it for her as he spoke. "In the meantime, enjoy the pool boy." _The lucky bastard... _"And I'll see you soon, darling."  
  
With that, he bent down just a touch, barely touched his lips to her smooth cheek in a return kiss-- forcing himself not to linger, not at all, not even a little-- then grinned at her, closing the door behind them.

* * *

Dear Reviewers, 

Beaubier has run away for a few days, so you'll have to deal with me responding to all your reviews.

With my deepest and most sincere apologies,  
Jen

* * *

Sue Penkivech – Very eloquently put, m'lady. Glad you enjoyed. ;)

Zacynthus – Thank you so much. Glad you're enjoying!

Reeny – Torture? Hmm... yes, we do rather enjoy it. You think you're suffering, how do you think poor Jean and Warren feel? Beaubier and I have to deal with two very unhappy, tortured characters running rampant through our heads 24/7. It's a treat, believe me. ;) But we love them and we wouldn't trade them for anything. Really. Anyway, glad you're still liking the story, even if you're finding it mildly torturous.

Sprocket – I've already told you how happy you've made me by breaking from your tradition and seeing how cute Jean and Warren are together. Now, if only more Scott/Jean fans could put away their preconceived ideas and give it a try... sigh. Can't please all of the people all of the time, I guess. But I'm so glad you're enjoying! :)

The Scribe3 – Glad you're still plugging away, giving the story a chance! I know some of the chapters are rather long, so take a little time... but dammit, BB and I just can't seem to keep things short when we get Warren and Jean in the same scene. Anyway, thank you and glad you're still liking it!

Foenixfyre – Thank you so much! Yes, Beaubier's good at creating converts with her Warren. Way back when, in the RPG where this story first began, I had no real interest in Warren or a Warren/Jean relationship. I thought it would be nice to add a little bit of tension to Scott/Jean, but that was it. But damn, BB's Warren won me over by the time they'd left the Met. I was so hooked (as was my Jean). The only other fics I've really read that feature Warren are Minisinoo's movie-verse stories (and if you haven't read them, I _highly_ recommend them). And thank you – I'm really trying to illustrate the many facets of Jean's personality. She's so much more complex than most people (writers and readers) give her credit for being. Glad you're still liking the story! :)

DoubleL27 – Mmmmm... wingsex. You asked for shirtless Warren – happy now? I know Jean is. ;) Glad this hasn't gotten old for you yet. New stuff coming up from here on in! Wheeee!

Illmantrim – Thank you so much! Glad you're still enjoying. :)

* * *


	9. Interlude 3

_**Interlude 3**_

_Week 2, Monday_

One of those things he needed to do, obviously.

His life, at times, felt like a giant stretch of things he needed to do. Needed to research the company investments. Needed to hide his wings. Needed to call his parents. Needed to…

Needed to call Scott.

No mistake about it, Warren Kenneth Worthington III had a very loud, very bratty inner child. And it didn't want to talk to Scott Summers.

He also had a very stern, very angry businessman in him, however. And that particular part of him was giving him the dirtiest, most disapproving looks possible.

Not because he was so into Jean he had an emerald in his nightstand for her. Definitely not because of that.

Warren sighed, fluttering his wings without intending to. The sound, a little too bird-like for his tastes, startled him. His heart was already beating too fast. It always did when he was bratty and guilty.

Be a man, Warren.

But first, another sigh.

Then he hit the button on his phone. The green one. The button that would call the number on the faceplate. Scott's number. Held the phone up to his hear, rubbing his other temple with his free hand.

He'd spoken to Scott a million times. There was nothing wrong about Warren and Jean and the time they spent together and the way she'd leaned back against him or how she looked in that dress or what he'd been thinking of this morning in the shower—

"Warren! Hey, man, glad you called!"

Heart stopped.

"Um, yeah," he fumbled, stupidly, eyes darting around his apartment. Futile. Scott wasn't _here_. Dammit dammit dammit! "Yeah, hi Scott. How did you—?"

"I have your number in my cell," the younger man's voice was laughing. Lighthearted. "I have since Apoc. Caller ID, it's the wave of the future."

"Right. Sorry. Long day at the office."

Not a lie, exactly. He _had _been at the office all day. But he'd spent most of it trying not to call Scott, so he wasn't sure it counted. Sure as hell had felt long though.

This was a lot easier when Scott wasn't involved, was the thing.

"No worries," another laugh, easy. Scott didn't really _laugh _per se. It wasn't easy sounding enough to be a laugh. Something kind of controlled about it. But warm anyway.

"So Jean," Warren jerked involuntarily at the sound of her name, as if he were about to be hit, "says you're interested in coming for a visit this weekend? That's great, man, I'm really glad you decided to give it a chance. No pressure, or anything. But I just think you'll really like what you find at Xavier's."

He didn't even sound like a salesman. Only Scott Summers could utter that little speech, and sound completely sincere. Nothing dodgy, no seedy businessman. Not even real enthusiasm. Just pure goodness. "Yeah I… I should've thought of it before."

"Hey," the voice was reassuring, "I knew you just needed some time. It's… not easy for any of us. Anyhow, we can talk about it when you get here. When's good for you?"

Cut to the chase, and Warren found himself flopping down on his couch, with all the grace of an elephant. Landing hard on the cushions, sinking in like he hadn't the strength to hold himself up anymore. Jesus Christ, this really shouldn't be difficult. It was just _Scott. _He'd gotten worked up over nothing! "How's… Saturday?"

"Great, I'll clear my schedule," he offered. "I'm glad Jean brought you around, Warren."

Okay. Now he had something to be worked up over. That wasn't accusatory though… right? Couldn't have been, because there was nothing to accuse about, and certainly not that his girlfriend had spent the night in this apartment in his arms, because even she didn't really know all of that…

Answer.

"Right, yeah, me too," he managed a smile. Not that anyone could see it. But voices always sounded different when someone was smiling. At least, that's what his mother always told him. "It was really time. I guess it was just… a fortuitous run in the other day in the city."

Why did he feel like a cad, saying it then?

"Sounds like it, man."

Not accusatory. No. Couldn't be. Definitely not.

Scott wasn't finished, though, "I need to run though, so we'll talk this weekend. Study group time. Lucky me."

"Great, thanks a lot for your—"

"Warren. Come on, man."

He smiled, genuinely. Okay. Not a business venture. No hiding from guilt in a suit. That never worked anyhow. "Right. See you soon, Scott."

"See you soon."

Warren closed his phone, and promptly chucked it across the couch, into the armrest on the other side. It hit the pillows, and slid down into the cushions, then clanked its way down until it hit the floor with a thud.

That wasn't so bad, right?

He was _making _it bad, was the thing. Being a baby. Jesus Christ, what was this, middle school? There was _nothing _going on. _Less _than nothing. Would Jean even want him in the same room with Scott if there was? No. Of course not. If Scott thought there was, would he want Warren to be an X-Man? No. Of course not. And she did. And he did.

And he was fucking losing his mind.

_Time to switch to decaf, my friend. _

He leaned his elbows on his knees, and raked his hands through his blonde hair, vaguely noticing that it was getting a little shaggy. Maybe he should let it.

Maybe he'd ask Jean at the Institute this weekend.

Christ.

* * *


	10. Chapter 6

_**Chapter 6**_

_Week 2, Tuesday_

Warren was trying very, _very_ hard not to pull his hair out.

He'd been going over the material for weeks. He knew very well that Worthington Industries was one of the few major "powers" in the United States willing to fund this kind of research. And they _were_ willing. He'd beaten the board into submission on the subject multiple times. Despite the current president's utterly ridiculous, moralizing, complete lack of separation of church and state policy...

Worthington Ind. _was_ going to do what was right. Right for the world at large, and right for the company itself. The United States, in general, was being left in the dust when it came to researching cell-based therapy for presently "incurable" diseases. And this opportunity was theirs for the taking now, to help to change that, to not only give something back to the country, but to invest their money in something worthwhile, that would provide long term returns, fiscally speaking, as well. If only their damn CEO could wrap his head around what it was he was supposed to be funding, of course.

Warren had no difficulty understanding the business end of this kind of research, nor the political. The battle over stem cell research was just that-- purely political. And he understood why the factions were at war, and what their issues were.

Mainly because none of the "issues" were at all scientific. The facts were clear-- the president's policy on stem cell research was counterproductive, as far as he was concerned. And since he felt that way, so did his company. He knew that private funding was the only way to get anything useful done in this field, due to the current policy of the government, and he saw it as a golden opportunity. But it wasn't enough to simply grasp the political weight his decision to give the go ahead on this kind of research held. It wasn't enough to throw the hard earned money his father trusted him with around, just because he'd had someone tell him the researchers he was looking at funding were really damn smart. He needed to understand what it was about, for himself.

And Jesus Christ, it was a pain in his ass.

Years ago, when he knew he'd be a CEO, he'd never imagined he'd take it so seriously. But after finding a few anti-mutant organizations gleaning funding from his family... he'd started to get more and more serious about understanding the ramifications of just what he was investing in. And since...

Yes. Headache city.

Jean had been wonderful, of course. He'd been bothering her all day, on and off (conveniently ignoring any angst he may or may not have felt after talking to Scott the other day), about the usefulness of this or that technique, about the validity of this or that kind of data. Any question he'd had about medical research, she'd done her best to try and help him with. He had to be driving her insane... but looking around at the mess on his desk, which had grown exponentially throughout the week, he really couldn't force himself to feel _that_ badly.

And god knew he needed the distraction their occasional flirtation brought when they talked or messaged one another. Particularly today, since this was _all_ he'd done, _all_ day long. His groveling act and the morning following were the last times he'd seen her in person, and he missed her face. But at least he knew things hadn't changed, and she hadn't started having second thoughts about the... possible strangeness of their evening together.

God, what _had_ he been thinking, falling asleep with her in his arms?

He shook his head, annoyed, and clutched at his hair once again. Right. Not the time for distraction. Unless, of course... the distraction could help him with his current issue.

He picked up his phone, and started typing. Hoping to god that she wasn't so tired of him she'd turned hers off tonight. _I know I'm a pain in the ass, Jeannie... but what do we know about the "approved" lines of federally funded research on Parkinsons? As dismal in yield as I'm being led to believe?_

He sighed, and put the thing back on the desk. And dropped his head on to the open text in front of him, someone's doctoral thesis from last year at Harvard. 

Christ, but he was getting tired.

X

When her phone beeped for what seemed like the 50th time that day, Jean couldn't help but sigh and shake her head. Affectionately, of course. Because Warren's questions were starting to make her a little bit crazy. She loved talking to him, but when it actually made her have to _think_, as his questions had been doing all day, it became work rather than just fun. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing, of course, but still...

Christy smirked, eyebrows raised. The phone continued to beep from where it sat on the table between them, next to the laptop on which, until a moment ago, Jean had been speedily typing.

Jean sighed silently as she picked the phone up and read the message. She smiled, because at least he _realized_ he was driving her nuts. "Maybe it would be better if I just went over there," Jean mused aloud. "It would be so much easier than this back and forth stuff."

"_Or_," Christy began, hazel eyes sparkling, "you could have him come to you. I want to meet this guy. And that way he could have two minds to pick on the subject."

Jean eyed her friend. That wasn't a bad idea, actually. She'd like to see Warren, and if she could help him out with his research at the same time...

_Dismal is a good word for it, yes. And that's the last answer you're getting from me this way. Gather whatever you need help with and get your pain-in-the-ass self over to Starbucks - Broadway & 114. We'll be waiting.  
_  
Jean showed the message to Christy, who laughed. "Perfect. Do you think he'll come?"

"Yeah, I think he will," Jean smiled.

The brunette grinned and casually undid one more button on her shirt, exposing a little more cleavage.

"You're terrible!" Jean laughed.

"Well, you did say he's single," Christy replied, batting her eyes innocently. "A girl has to hedge her bets from time to time."

Jean shook her head, still laughing. Christy was a very pretty girl – big hazel eyes, curly brown hair alive with gold highlights that fell just past her shoulders, and a soft oval face that revealed dimples when she smiled. Several inches shorter than Jean and a few pounds more, her figure was voluptuous without being considered heavy. She certainly didn't have to rely on an extra opened button on her blouse to attract the attention of the opposite sex.

"Yes, he's single," Jean admitted, "but I don't think he's really looking at the moment. So don't get your hopes up."

Christy shrugged and grinned. "I'm not seriously hoping, just... y'know."

Jean chuckled at her friend and shook her head. Taking a sip of her coffee, she hit _send_ on her phone and returned it to its resting place on the table.

X

A mere half hour later, Warren had parked his Audi in the nearest garage, and was standing in front of the door to Starbucks at Broadway & 114th, grinning.

He'd made sure to pull out the 20-something clothes again, considering that he knew she was there with her friends (or, at least, one of them had been there earlier). He wasn't exactly sure how well he'd fit in with college kids... but really, that was who he _should_ be fitting in with. So why not? He straightened his worn leather jacket, gave one last glance down at his super-faded low rise jeans, and took a deep breath. Shifting the bag he had over one shoulder, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Immediate smell of coffee and warm of pressing bodies. The place was pretty packed, but oddly sedate. No one was moving much-- it was just a general fullness. Couches and tables and low light that somehow seemed just right for studying. And yeah... he had to study.

God. What a subculture he'd just dropped himself into.

He looked around, pushing at his hair absently for a moment, and saw Jean standing in line at the counter. Dark jeans and a long sleeved top that fit fantastically. Had they ever made something that didn't fit Jean Grey like it'd been tailored for her? No, he didn't think so.

Obviously, he gravitated toward her immediately, his smile suddenly threatening to split his face. Ignoring the people behind her in line, who were probably irritated with him for the treatment, he put himself very close to her, his arm just touching hers, and leaned down to say, "So, I'm here to apply for the research assistant position."

Smiling, Jean turned toward him and she was struck quite suddenly by how good it was to see him again. She'd missed him the last few days, even though they'd kept in regular contact.

She had actually been able to sense Warren as soon as he walked in the door. That had surprised her a little bit, but she figured she knew him well enough by now that it made sense she'd subconsciously pick up on his mental signature when he was near. He would never be able to sneak up on her, that was for sure.

"Well, you should know that the hours are terrible, and the pay is non-existent – unless you can live on coffee and pastries." Jean leaned into him, still smiling, and bumped his arm lightly with her own in greeting.

Ah yes, that easy familiarity wasn't a figment of his imagination. She really _was_ as beautiful, charming, and tolerant of his dork-moments as he remembered. How utterly fantastic. "Sounds like my kind of job," he laughed.

"Can I help you?" The voice from across the counter almost made Jean jump. For a brief moment, she'd almost forgotten where they were.

"I'll have a non-fat vanilla latte, a chocolate-peanut butter bar, and...?" she turned to Warren, eyebrow cocked questioningly, waiting.

"A double mocha and a blueberry muffin, please." He reached for his wallet, then turned back to her and smiled down again. "Right, so I'll get this, because you've been so patient with the fact that I was apparently born with rocks for brains."

Jean rolled her eyes at him, which made him laugh, but she didn't protest – just thanked him. He paid the girl for the coffee, and they moved in the direction of the pick-up counter. Warren stayed close, and put his hand at the small of her back. Not exactly directing her that way... just keeping close. It was a bit crowded up here by the line after all.

"So, what is it that I'm so rudely interrupting tonight anyhow? More abnormal psych experiments?" he asked, keeping his voice low, despite his sudden urge to start bleeding sunshine all over the place, due to her presence. She really did make things so much more complicated. In such a wonderful way.

Jean laughed. "Damn, you got me. That's the real reason I lured you out here. Christy and I decided to use you for our psych project after all, and we wanted to conduct that interview you promised." She grinned and shook her head. "Actually, we just finished up a joint biology paper, now we're on to basic review stuff. So nothing terribly important, we just wanted to get off campus to do it."

He raised his eyebrows and chuckled. The girl's sense of humor was simply mind-boggling sometimes. Threatening to use him for her psych experiment. He knew it was simply a way of her diffusing his paranoid recluse tendencies, gentle mockery to keep him from taking himself too seriously. And he knew he needed it.

Their orders were placed on the counter in front of them, and Jean thanked the girl with a smile, reluctantly moving away from the lovely, warm presence of Warren's hand on the small of her back. Picking up the coffees she waited for Warren to collect the two small plates that held their snacks, then began weaving her way around tables and people to the booth she and Christy had claimed. She could see Christy's eyes on them as they approached, and the brunette's quirked eyebrow. Obviously the other girl approved of Warren.

_Oh boy, here we go._ Jean rolled her eyes at her friend, and then, knowing Warren wouldn't be able to see, mouthed one word: _behave_.

Jean placed the coffee cups down on the table, then took the plates from Warren, sliding his coffee and muffin to the far side of the booth, next to the wall. "Warren, this is Christy Adams, the terror I've told you about. Christy, Warren Worthington, king of text messaging and self-proclaimed pain in the ass."

Christy stood as much as she could from her place at the booth, and reached out her hand, smiling genuinely. "Hey, Warren. Nice to meet you. Jean's told me so much about you, it's nice to finally put a face to the name. Or to the text messages, as the case may be."

Laughing, Warren reached out for her hand and shook it. Cute girl, nice smile. He could read her already, with that innate business sense he had. She was very real. She continued to smile at him as he slid into the booth and stopped in front of his muffin, which was looking quite good, at this point. He was surprised to realize that he hadn't eaten since breakfast... which had been a banana.

"Nice to meet you too," he told her, grinning back. "Though I'd think it'd be more interesting to meet the guy who's such a pain in the ass or so psychologically abnormal, I appreciate the kinder spin you put on things."

The two girls laughed, and Christy grinned at Jean. Oh yes, the brunette _definitely_ approved of Warren.

"Don't let me stop you ladies from your biology review," he shrugged off the bag that was still attached to his shoulder now, and reached for his coffee as Jean started to slide in beside him. "I'll just sit here and be as quiet as possible until I'm spoken to." He grinned over at Jean at that and took a sip of his mocha.

Jean laughed as she sat down next to Warren, sliding along the bench and probably sitting a little closer to him than she would anyone else. "Right. You're going to be quiet. Why don't I believe that?"

"Hmmm, you're right, Jean. There's no way," Christy chimed in, shaking her head sadly. "If he talks that much via texts, I can imagine he must never shut up in person."

He laughed aloud at that, covering his face with his hand. Good god, there were _two_ of them on him now! Of course, he'd be lying if he said he didn't like the attention. So he sipped at his coffee some more, watching them with extreme amusement as they discussed him. Or, some clone of him that Jean had clearly been spending time with.

"It's _really_ annoying, actually. I can't get a word in edgewise with him. Ever. He just goes on and on and on..." Jean trailed off and sighed grandly while Christy kept shaking her head in sympathy. "Sometimes I don't know why I even bother trying to say anything at all. And it's always sports and beer and bikini babes. That's all he _ever_ talks about." Jean cast a sidelong glance at Warren and couldn't help but grin, nudging his foot with hers. "Right, War? You're a Neanderthal personified."

He grinned hugely as he nudged her back, and scooted just a little closer, so their arms were touching. "Ms. Grey, I don't know _what_ you're talking about! I'm skilled in the art of communication...," he feigned confusion for just a minute, and then cocked an eyebrow at her. "Oh. You're talking about the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition centerfolds all over the mini bar." He made a show of stretching out his arm and laying it across her shoulders, giving her a friendly squeeze. "What can I say, Jeannie? Chicks dig it." And he flashed a wink at Christy, just for good measure. So it would look more like a whole-table joke, rather than an excuse to have his arm around her.

Right. And it was clearly a joke. Obviously. He wasn't at all enjoying the faint scent of her hair. Or the feeling of her tucked just so under his arm. Or the warmth of her against him... No. Not at all.

Jesus, he was in a good mood all the sudden. Scott… who? It was just coffee, after all…

X

"So there the three of us were, grass stained and dirty in our prim and proper school uniforms. Annie and I didn't know _what_ to do. The headmistress, a horrible old dragon lady, was ripping strips off us for not acting like 'proper young ladies', so we were on the verge of tears, and then _this_ one," Christy grinned and pointed at Jean, "finally yelled back at her, 'We're seven! We don't _want_ to be proper young ladies! That's boring and awful, just like you!' And then -"

"I did _not_ say that!" Jean protested through her laughter. Then she covered her face with her hands, because she actually did remember that day, and it was pretty damn close to what she'd shouted at that terrible woman.

"Oh, you _so_ did! And the headmistress was so shocked that she didn't know what to do. She just sent us home to change, and that was the end of it. No detention, nothing." Christy grinned at Warren. "That was the day we all learned to never piss off Jean Grey."

Warren was laughing aloud, and had been for quite some time. The stories of childhood Jean were just what he'd expect. And god, he could just imagine her giving some horrible old woman a piece of her mind... "It's a lesson we all have to learn," he grinned over at her, thinking of his recent experiences with her and a certain image she'd sent him over the phone not that long ago. Jean smiled back at him cheekily.

He took the last bite of his muffin, which had taken him a surprisingly long time to eat, and the last drink of his mocha, which hadn't been nearly as difficult to handle, sitting there laughing with the girls. His face felt... tired, from all the smiling. It was unfamiliar and... Jean was very, very close to him. Warm and caffeinated and laughing in a coffee shop, he didn't even mind that his wings were starting to twitch.

Jean shook her head, still chuckling, and picked at the last of her bar. A sudden flurry of activity by the front door drew Jean's attention, and she spotted four other friends that she and Christy tended to hang out with: Tara and her boyfriend Jake, and two other boys, Brian and Andrew. They were all biology majors, like she and Christy were, and they all managed to have at least half their classes all together. The small group spotted Jean and Christy and headed right over, leaving Brian in line.

"Hey guys," Tara greeted for the two boys, who simply nodded. Without asking, Tara and Jake slid into the booth next to Christy, shoving her down to the far end. The booths were designed to fit four people comfortably. It now looked like this one would be sitting six. No, seven once Brian joined them.

"Ouch! Watch it!" Christy protested as she quickly moved out of their way.

Warren smiled politely at the newcomers. He was suddenly _very_ glad that Jean was between him and them. Not because he was afraid of them... simply because it was clear that they intended to squeeze themselves into the booth, and that kind of contact was the very thing that made him dread going out in public anyhow.

Andrew, tall, dark-haired, and boasting a football player's broad physique, smiled apologetically at Jean as he sat down next to her. She slid closer to Warren, who lifted his arm and rested it across the seat back behind her to make more room. "Isn't this cozy," she muttered under her breath, knowing that it was likely only Warren could hear her. He grinned back, as she spoke a little louder, this time, "Everyone, this is Warren. Warren, that's Tara and Jake, this is Andrew, and the poor guy carrying all their coffees over here is Brian." They waved in turn at Warren, eyeing him carefully.

He lifted one hand in a general sort of wave, nodding at Jake, a skinny boy with dark eyes and sandy hair, who was giving him some kind of strange look, but seemed intent on making eye contact. The names saved, filed, and ready for use whenever he'd need them. One thing he was extremely good with was names and the faces they belonged to.

Tara looked at Jean. "This isn't the boyfriend," she said, motioning to Warren with her chin, not making it a question.

Warren felt his eyebrows start to creep upward, and shot a look at Jean quickly. Suddenly heard Scott's voice on the phone line, that laugh of his. Great. And his arm was behind her. Cozied up quite nicely, as she'd said herself. Oh, this had to look wonderful.

Jean's cheeks started to flush slightly, but she fought it down. "No," she replied simply, leaving it at that. Brian arrived seconds later with the coffees, which sufficiently distracted them from further questions.

Turning her head toward Warren she offered him a helpless smile. "Sorry. When I asked you to come here, I had no idea..." she trailed off, shaking her head, then smiled again. "Welcome to the insanity."

He smiled back, still feeling slightly guilty about her obvious embarrassment over the question of whether he was "the boyfriend." Maybe he should back off a little... he didn't want things to get weird... for her. God knew they'd been weird for him for ages, he was almost _used _to the sudden guilty flashes, and it really was a bit creepy of him... Not that he _could_ back off, at this point, considering that she was pressed into his side by the mass of football-player guy on her other side.

"I could use some insanity, I think," he gave a quiet laugh.

"So, Warren." Jake had his head cocked now, and Warren looked over and caught his eye again. He was still looking at him strangely. Eyes going over and over his face, like he felt he should know him from somewhere.

Oh. That could be embarrassing. He'd really rather avoid the subject altogether, in fact. It was one thing for Jean and Christy to know (and really, he was only assuming that Christy knew, they hadn't exactly sat around discussing the family fortune)-- it was another thing entirely for a table full of college students to--

"What's your major?"

He smiled and shot Jean yet another look. "Actually, I don't go to school. I'm just... a friend of Jean's, really. What about you?"

"Oh, we're the bio crew," the tiny African-American girl who'd been identified as Tara informed him, leaning over the table. "Every last one of us," she gestured around the table. "You're in for a treat."

Jake was still looking at him oddly, and Christy was starting to stare a little too. Like they were both waiting for him to drop the big line about who he was...

He reached under the table, and nudged Jean with one hand, at her knee, keeping his face dutifully neutral. In other words, help. "Sounds good to me," he commented. "This the department hangout, or something?"

"Actually, we came here to get _away_ from the department hangout," Jean said pointedly, only half joking, in an attempt to take the focus off Warren. She liked her friends, but they sometimes grated on her. And really, she and Christy _had_ wanted to get off campus for a reason.

Christy covered a laugh with a cough, and grinned at Warren and Jean. "Subtle," she murmured. Warren was grinning too, but covering it by drinking the dregs of his mocha.

Apparently oblivious, the newcomers launched into a conversation about the upcoming biology lab. Jean sighed softly and leaned into Warren, resting comfortably against him, crossing her leg under the table so that her foot was propped against his shin in the cramped space.

Warren leaned into her as well, awfully damn comfortable, and that pesky boyfriend question all but forgotten as far as he was concerned. So familiar, and it really hadn't been that long since they'd begun speaking. Not two weeks, and already he found it so easy to touch her. He told himself that it was easier with her because she was a mutant. Because she _could_ know about what it was he was hiding under the jacket. But it was all a lie, obviously. A lie he'd created to allow himself to function. What was real was the fact that he had an emerald necklace in his night stand that he'd bought for no one.

Tara's sharp eyes hadn't missed Jean shifting into Warren's side. "Scott's the boyfriend, right?"

Jean nodded and took a sip of her latte, and Warren sat up a little straighter, wings twitching.

"Why haven't we met him?" The question came from Jake.

Jean's eyes narrowed slightly. What was up with the game of twenty questions? Because of Warren? Wasn't she allowed to have a friend who just happened to be a guy? A guy that she just happened to feel very comfortable with? What was the big deal?

"I've told you, he doesn't go to school in the city. It wouldn't make sense for him to drive all the way here just to meet up for coffee," Jean replied as nonchalantly as she could.

Jake looked skeptical. "You'd think he'd make the effort once in a while."

Jean had no answer for that, because yes, one would think that. But then again, she hadn't met any of his college friends, either, so she couldn't hold it against him.

"I don't know, I'm starting to think you're making him up, Jean," Brian piped up from the end of the table, where (thankfully) he'd pulled up a chair. He toyed absently with his eyebrow ring as he watched her, a smirk on his face.

Sighing and chuckling at the same time, both in amusement and frustration, Jean looked up at Warren with a smile. "Help me out here, War. Tell them he exists."

For a quick moment, he met her green eyes and very much didn't want to oblige. He'd had quite enough Scott tonight already. But before a coherent thought on the subject could form, he stopped it. Jesus Christ, she was a telepath. Not that she'd "spy", but surely at times she could pick up on... vibes.

Thank god she hadn't yet. He turned back to her friends, and made sure his best smile (not too enthusiastic, but genuine) was in place. "Oh, he's real. Talked to him on the phone just yesterday, in fact. I can assure you, she has a boyfriend named Scott Summers, and I've met him on multiple occasions." Hm. He really hadn't enjoyed saying that.

His eyes flicked away from Jake, who still seemed intent on staring him down, and to Christy. Who was just... looking at him. One eyebrow cocked. And Warren knew, immediately, that she _knew_. He tried to sink further his seat, but found it impossible. He'd never much been one to covet someone else's mutation, but he suddenly found himself wishing for Shadowcat's.

"See? Definitive proof that Scott exists outside of my imagination. Unless, of course, Warren shares my delusions." She nudged Warren very lightly in the ribs, grinning at him.

Warren pulled his eyes away from Christy's, and made himself smile back at Jean. His heart was beating a little too fast at the knowledge that the dark-haired girl across the table could see right through him. Not that he'd been trying _not_ to flirt, this entire time. Just that now that he'd mentioned Scott... she was looking _right_ through him. Damn intelligent people.

"Now will you guys _please_ back off?" Jean asked the group in mock exasperation.

Tara rolled her eyes dramatically. "You're no fun," she declared loudly, then smiled. "We tease because we love, Jean, that's all."

"That makes me feel so much better, thanks," the redhead replied, face sincere, voice laden with sarcasm.

Warren wasn't really listening, however, as the girls went back and forth. He was avoiding Christy, directly across the table, who still had one perfectly manicured eyebrow raised. And she was starting to smirk a little.

Jake, still watching Warren carefully, suddenly had a look on his face that indicated the puzzle pieces had slid into place. "So if you don't go to school, what _do_ you do, Warren?" he asked leadingly.

Well... at least it gave him something else to pay attention to. Warren looked up, and met his eyes, steadily, considering. On one hand, treating it like it was a big deal would only make it so. On the other, no matter what he said, he'd separate himself even further from the rest of the group by admitting to being the CEO of Worthington Industries, and heir to the Worthington fortune. Of course... he _was_ those two things. And should he be _ashamed_ of them? No, it wasn't shame...

--_I'll back up whatever and how much you want to tell them. It's completely up to you,_-- Jean sent to him, making sure to send comforting feelings with the message, just in case. Because she didn't have a clue how he wanted to handle that question. It hadn't even crossed her mind, to be honest. But hell, if he was going to be spending time her and her friends (assuming they didn't scare him off by the time the evening was done), maybe it was better to just get it over with. Christy certainly didn't seem to be making a big deal out of it, now that she'd actually met him.

_--Thanks, Jeannie,--_ he thought, placing it at the forefront of his mind, where he already knew she'd pick it up. God, it was so reassuring when she did that. He felt the tension ease out of his shoulders, and he felt the corners of his lips turning up in a hint of a smile. _--It's okay though. No point in hiding... too much.-- _He definitely hid enough of himself, as it was.

"Business," he answered, still meeting the other boy's eyes. "I run a branch of my family's company. That's actually what I'm here to bother Jean about, I was just doing research on an investment."

Jake nodded, and, somewhat surprisingly, returned the faint smile. "_That_ Warren. I get it."

His girlfriend shot him a semi-annoyed look at that, obviously not in on the joke, but Brian was already going off about something else at Andrew, obviously having been spawned by Warren's mention of research and some kind of paper he had to turn in tomorrow that he clearly hadn't finished. --_That wasn't so bad,--_ he thought, leaning into Jean for just a moment.

She leaned back. --_I didn't figure it would be, really. They're good people.--_ And Jean couldn't help but add, mental voice amused, --_Usually, anyway.--_

The group chatted for a while, seemingly having forgiven Warren for not being "the boyfriend", accepting him for what Jean presented him as – simply a very good friend. Jean was pleased by how well he got on with her friends now that the initial awkwardness had dissipated. It made it impossible for her to stop smiling.

X

Sometime later, after they finished their coffees, the four invaders decided to take off. "We just came in for a decent caffeine fix," Jake explained as they got themselves organized to head out. "Can't get Starbucks quality in the dorms." He shook his shaggy dark blond hair out of his eyes and smiled broadly at the other three. "Hope you didn't mind the added company."

"Would you care if we _did_ mind?" Christy quipped.

Brian winked at her. "Nope," he said, toying once again with his eyebrow ring. "You know I'll do anything to spend time with you, Chris."

Jean laughed and Christy snorted. "In your dreams," the brunette replied airily.

"Every night, baby, every night," Brian leered jokingly at her. Christy rolled her eyes and flipped him off.

"Nice meeting you, Warren," Andrew spoke in a quiet voice, addressing the other man directly for the first time that evening. Andrew was very shy, never really saying much around people he wasn't comfortable with. The fact that he was talking to Warren spoke volumes about his acceptance into the group. 

"Yeah, definitely," Tara chimed in. "You'll have to hang out with us again. Help us convince Jean to come dancing or something – make her do something with us after class besides study." She reached over and grasped Jean's shoulders, shaking her gently. "You need to let loose, girl, have some fun!"

Jean smiled tolerantly and nodded, sinking back against Warren in an unconscious attempt to escape. It was the same schpeel she'd been hearing from her new friends for weeks now. "I know, I know. When I get time, I promise."

"So you keep saying," Christy said with a mischievous smile. "We're getting tired of your excuses. Get her ass in gear, Warren. Make her have some fun for a change."

Jean kicked Christy's leg under the table. "Don't you start, too."

Laughing, Jake slipped his arm around Tara's shoulders. "You guys duke it out, we're outta here. Later!" He waved and steered Tara away from the table. The others waved and headed off.

Just the three of them alone again, Jean suddenly realized that she was still pressed up against Warren. Flushing slightly, she slid away from him as she reached under the table for her bag, hoping it would appear natural rather than a panicked attempt to escape. "I need more coffee," she said lightly, digging through her bag for her purse. She emerged victorious a moment later and turned to her two friends. "Refills all around?" At their nods she smiled, piled all the empty cups and plates onto a try, and slid out of the booth. "Back in a bit."

Christy watched as Jean headed toward the very back of the shop, depositing the tray on the appropriate spot, and then apparently taking a trip to the Little Girl's Room before getting the coffee. Turning to Warren, she just watched him, a smirk toying at her lips. "So," she said finally, leaving the word hanging there between them.

Warren cast a wistful sort of glance at Jean's retreating back, and then looked back to the girl across the table. And sighed. His eyes dropped to the table, and he could find it in him to offer nothing more than, "So...?"

Christy wasn't buying it. She just kept watching him. He didn't really look up, busted as he was, but he didn't need to, to feel those striking hazel eyes burning into his skull. Or to see the faint smirk forming on her lips.

He sighed and looked up finally, feeling that if he didn't say _something_, and soon, he just might explode. His wings were getting terribly twitchy under her stare. And the knowledge that she _knew_ wasn't helpful with that at all. Not one little bit. "Enjoying your evening?"

"Oh yeah," she sat back, cocking her head at him. "The show's been great."

And she was definitely not going to give up. Warren looked at her for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly. He had a few options here. He could sit here in silence with her and probably piss her off. She was blunt and upfront, not dissimilar to Jean in that way. But very dissimilar in that she didn't seem to know when to quit, whereas Jean had something sensitive in her, a very obvious soft spot. Watching Christy, he knew very well that this girl didn't have a soft spot. Real, honest, and funny, but definitely not soft. So his other options were to either make an excuse and leave, when they hadn't, in fact, gotten any work at all done... or to try and talk his way out of things.

Option three was really his most viable one. "Okay, I know what you're thinking," he felt a faint smile twitching at his lips, "but you're wrong. Really."

"Hmm-hmm," she nodded. "And just what is it that I'm thinking?"

She wasn't supposed to be able to make him uncomfortable. He could stare down Tony Stark across a table. There was no reason this girl should be able to make him sweat. Only, she could and she did. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, wings irritated. "You're thinking...," he started, irritated with the fact that she was _forcing_ him to say this. "You think that I... really, Christy," he gave up, "she's only a friend."

"Do you think if you keep telling yourself that you might actually believe it?" she asked conversationally.

Warren dragged a hand through his blonde hair, doubtless messing it up beyond all repair, and realizing it too late. He had to end this conversation, and now. He couldn't talk about this, and certainly not to a girl he barely knew and who happened to be very good friends with Jean Grey. "What's not to believe? She's otherwise occupied. It's a non-issue."

For a moment, she simply watched him. He watched back, but eventually, sat back, pressing his wings between his back and the booth. Half to hold them still, and half because he suddenly wanted to move, readjust his position every five seconds. She seemed to be working up something big... but she was just... staring. Finally, however, she broke her ominous silence. "Ok, I'm gonna be straight with you. I like you. You seem like a really nice guy, and Jean very obviously adores you. Right now you've got her totally fooled, but you're not fooling yourself, and you're not fooling me. If Scott wasn't in the picture – as little as he may actually _be_ in the picture – you wouldn't hesitate, right?"

Before he could stop himself, he replied, "That obvious, am I?" And he started pulling at his hair again, resting one elbow on the table and slumping slightly. She was right, he wouldn't hesitate at all. It wasn't a possibility he allowed himself to consider all that often... but if Scott wasn't in the picture...

That was a bad, bad way to think about this. Terrible, in fact, because Scott _was_ in the picture. Not only that, but he _liked_ Scott. Hell, he looked up to the guy, in a lot of ways! "Look," he tried to explain, "this has some major danger potential. Without giving you my life story, let's just say that I don't... know a lot of people. And she's a good friend. And Scott... he might be, some day. It's too complicated for me to think of it like that. It could ruin too much."

"But that's not stopping you from thinking about it," she countered. "I mean, the look on your face when she asked you to talk about Scott... I'm willing to bet she didn't see it for what it was, but I did."

"I know you did," he raised an eyebrow at her. "I caught the look you sent me. But it doesn't matter what I think, because it's so completely removed from the reality of the situation. The reality is that she's busy, happy, and taken. And I'm...," he slowed down here, considering just what he was. The guy she took pity on? The guy who bothered the shit out of her in classes? The guy she'd let buy her dinner once? "I'm the creepy guy who will happily follow her around whenever she'll let him." He covered his face with his hands at that, smiling but embarrassed. Because it was _true_.

Christy seemed to consider this, as he recovered from the slight flush it brought to his cheeks, head cocking again. "First of all, if you think she's spending time with you just to be _nice_, you're not nearly as smart as I thought you were. Second, how happy do you think she really is with Scott? I mean, I know pretty much nothing about the guy, but what little I do know..." she trailed off and shrugged. "Well, let's just say I'm not his biggest fan."

Warren, actually, _was_ his biggest fan. At first, he had a completely adverse reaction to her statement. Scott was a lot of things he couldn't manage to be. Honest about his mutation, for one. Leading the X-Men, making a difference in a way that Warren couldn't bring himself to, exposing himself to the world, and fighting for it. Scott Summers was an amazing guy, really. He was probably born amazing.

But that wasn't what they were talking about. And when it came to Jean... from the way Scott spoke of her, Warren knew he loved her. But it didn't seem... like _that_, now that he really thought of it.

Wishful thinking.

"Scott's very... focused," he tried. "He's intense. He's very into his work, and the greater good sort of thing. I think she'd be happier with someone who could... give her more, yeah. But I haven't exactly asked her about it..." Which was odd, because he knew she probably wouldn't mind if he had. They'd talked a _very_ little about it in the car after the show. But that was it. In fact, the subject of Scott Summers really hadn't even come up when she'd been at his apartment all night, or in any phone conversations or messaging after...

Christy was nodding thoughtfully, however, displacing her brown curls. "Y'know, he never calls or texts her or anything. You'd think he would want to check in with her from time to time, wouldn't you? And it doesn't really sound like they ever do anything together. No Saturday night dates, or anything. It just seems like a really strange relationship to me."

Warren felt his brow furrow at that. He wasn't certain just how much this girl knew about their lives at the Institute, but he had to wonder if she would take that into account. Of course their relationship was strange... they were X-Men first. But honestly... he didn't like what he was hearing. Jean had time to come to his apartment, or to go to Starbucks with her friends. Why couldn't Scott do the same, with her? "I'm sure he has his reasons," he offered, lamely. "She's never mentioned being angry with him for neglect, or anything like that."

She only shrugged at him, voice low and sweet. "I didn't say anything about her being angry with him. I just think it's a really weird relationship."

Again Warren shifted, as Christy's smile turned evil. He couldn't think of anything to say to that. It _did_ sound weird, but what she seemed to be proposing was simply ludicrous. Was he supposed to go to Jean and ask her to... to what? To give him a chance to change her mind? He liked cheesy movies, maybe, but he definitely didn't think he could live one and take himself at all seriously. Of course, Jean was teaching him not to take himself so seriously these days, but even he had a limit.

"The chemistry between you and Jean is unbelievable," Christy continued wickedly. "I picked up on it a bit from the texts, but in person? Wow. Impressive."

Again, he clutched at his hair, and without thinking said, "God, I thought it was just me." The moment it was out of his mouth he regretted admitting to it and looked down. "She doesn't notice, though. It would never occur to her. And...," he looked back up now, attempting to look pleading, "let's just keep it that way, okay? This... this would be a great way to screw everything up with our friendship."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure that she doesn't notice," she said, with a knowing sort of smile that made Warren's stomach drop suddenly. "But don't worry, I won't go blabbing. This stays between us."

He managed a small, wry smile in return. "Thanks." But really... he couldn't let that go unanswered, her saying that Jean might actually have noticed this... thing between them. This thing that he'd convinced himself was a figment of his own lonely imagination. Because... well, why would Christy say that to him, if it wasn't true? Was she the type to fuck with people's emotions? Or was she as she seemed? Honest and simply interested in the well-being of her friend. "To be honest," he admitted, not really certain _why_ he was admitting to it, "it's difficult. Being with her, I mean. But it was more difficult before." Right. Hello, desperate man. Jesus. "That sounds stupid," he amended, quickly, "but it's really important to me that she not... find out. I really think she doesn't know. And if she did, she definitely wouldn't be doing... this kind of thing with me."

Head cocked again, and he was struck by just how catlike she was in her curiosity. "I'm not saying she knows you've got the hots for her, just that she's not oblivious to the chemistry between you. There's a difference. And what 'kind of thing'? Hang out with a friend?" And she laughed at him. He found himself laughing back, however. It wasn't mocking, necessarily, just... amused. And really, he couldn't blame her. It was... quite a situation. "Of course she would. She might not be crawling all over you like you both seem to enjoy so much if she knew how you really felt, but she wouldn't cut you off."

_Crawling all over you. _Good god, he liked the sound of that. Far too much.

"Honestly," he was still laughing, quietly, "that crawling all over each other thing was the 'kind of thing' I meant. I shouldn't, I know. But it's harmless. Really."

She smiled now, without a hint of evil. Just smiled at him. "Yeah, I know it is." Her head turned then, and he followed her gaze to Jean, who was returning with a tray of coffee for them. And he smiled at her, waving just a little. And pretended the sight didn't make his stomach flip just a little.

"And just for the record," Christy started again, causing him to look back to her, "I'm going to be rooting for you. Scott who?"

He opened his mouth, despite the fact that he had absolutely no comeback for that, fully prepared to start sputtering, ears starting to burn. She was being silly, obviously. Just trying to make him uncomfortable. Playing with him, like that cat she was starting to remind him of. It was cruel of her, in a way. Unless she was serious...

She might have been serious.

But Jean was at the table now, and Christy was smirking up at her. "Took you long enough. Did you have to go pick the beans yourself?" Jean crinkled her nose and made a face at her friend.

Warren managed a smile at the redhead. "Nice to have you back, Jeannie. Nice to have more coffee too." And he reached for his cup. Not that he needed to be _more_ on edge tonight.

Jean eyed her friends warily. There was something going on, sure was sure of it. She'd kept half an eye on them while she'd been in line, and it had appeared like they'd been having quite the conversation.

"I hope you two played nicely while I was gone," Jean told them, looking from Christy to Warren and back again.

"Would you expect anything else?" Christy asked, smiling innocently, which earned a raised eyebrow from Jean as she slid back into the booth next to Warren. "Of course we played nicely, didn't we Warren? We had a great talk." And the brunette winked at Warren, so Jean wouldn't see. "But y'know what, I didn't realize what time it was. I have to get back to the dorm and get some more work done. You'll be able to help Warren with what he needs, right?"

Warren felt his eyebrows raise, mildly alarmed. She wasn't kidding about rooting for him, apparently. It wasn't late at all. And she hadn't mentioned needing to leave to him before. And... well, he'd have to be an idiot not to see the significance there. He shifted, not for the first time tonight, uncomfortably. Good god, what had he been thinking, telling her _anything_?

Jean's brow furrowed as she looked at her friend, who was gathering her things together. "Of course. But I just got you another coffee –"

"I'll have them toss it into a take-out cup on the way out," Christy replied dismissively. She looked over at Warren and smiled genuinely, eyes mischievous. "It was really great finally meeting you, Warren. You're just as wonderful as Jean said you were."

Jean blushed and wanted very badly to hurt the other girl right then. "You could lay it on a little bit thicker, you know," Jean told her dryly.

"You love me and you know it," Christy grinned as she slipped out of the booth. "We'd better see you again soon," she told Warren, eyebrow arched meaningfully.

"You'll be ok walking back to the dorm by yourself?" Jean asked, only a little concerned. The dorms weren't far, and it was a pretty safe area of the city, all things considered.

"Absolutely. I'll have my coffee to protect me," Christy said, raising the cup in a salute as she walked backward a few steps. "Have a great night, you two." And with a final grin, she turned and walked off.

Warren waved after her, weakly, and then turned to Jean. He knew he should start getting out his books and such... but he was just caught looking at her.

Jean shook her head in bemusement and smiled at Warren. "I hope she didn't make you too crazy while I was gone."

"Actually, she's pretty interesting. Very... observant," he offered, hoping it didn't sound too vague. Jean cocked a questioning eyebrow at him but didn't ask what he meant. Might be better if she didn't know. "Must be nice having a friend from so long ago in your life. And I liked the others too, once I got past the whole... Worthington hurdle," his grin turned a bit sheepish, at that. He felt pretty ridiculous about that, now. He should've known that Jean would have excellent taste in friends. "The big guy was kinda quiet, though. Seems like a sounding board to the eyebrow-ring guy," he commented, starting to ramble now, as he mused. "Like the eyebrow ring. Honestly, I always wished I could pull that off... it'd be ridiculous, obviously..."

Regarding Warren carefully for a moment, Jean tried to picture him with an eyebrow ring. She couldn't help but grin at the mental image. Because, dressed as he was this evening in his leather jacket, jeans and t-shirt, she thought an eyebrow ring would look fantastic on him. Very sexy. In his Armani business suits...? Well, actually, it wouldn't be _that_ bad. It would certainly make a statement. But unfortunately, it was likely a statement that wouldn't be appreciated by his business associates.

Warren avoided the considering look she was giving him by reaching for his bag of research materials and hefting it up to the table. He supposed they really would have to get _something_ done, so he wouldn't have to go home feeling terribly guilty. About stealing her time. About thinking about stealing her. Not that she could be stolen.

"Ridiculous isn't the word I'd use the describe it," Jean corrected him, still smiling. "I think it would actually look really good on you. But I have a feeling it wouldn't go over very well, particularly in your business circles, and it would be awfully hard to hide. It's one of those piercing that everyone knows you have. Nothing subtle about it, no matter what hardware you have in."

He laughed at her, softly, trying to imagine what he'd look like if he put some metal through his eyebrow. Honestly, he'd thought it'd be... Well, cool. But he'd given up on cool right about when the wings had grown in.

Jean's smile changed, became almost shy. "I've actually always wanted to get my navel pierced, and I'm thinking more and more that it's something I want to do. And it's not like a lot of people would ever see it, really, so it wouldn't exactly tarnish my image as the 'good girl' of the Institute." Jean wrinkled her nose at that. She just got so tired of being labeled Miss Perfect by the other students. "But I would know it's there, and that's the important thing."

Eyebrows shot up without his permission and he simply stared for a moment, books completely forgotten. He tried not to imagine her figure, wrapped in that black dress, or in his own too-long dress shirt... and just how fantastically hot she'd look with her navel pierced.

He knew he was gawking for just a moment. He knew it was rude. But good god, how could he help it...? Her slim but curvy build was the very one that navel rings had been invented for, he was certain of it.

Jean she couldn't quite read his expression. Surprise, yes, definitely. But there was something else that was less identifiable. She started to flush slightly, sure that he was thinking just how ridiculous she was being. The conservative little goody-goody wanting a navel ring. Yes, she knew it was silly in a way, but still...

The only other person she'd told about her desire for a piercing was Scott. She'd mentioned it to him once in passing, asked him what he thought. He'd simply smiled and said, "Do whatever you want, Jean." A couple of weeks later, lying on his bed, his hand on her belly under her shirt, Scott had brought it up again. He'd asked her whether or not she was going to go ahead with the piercing, and she'd shrugged noncommittally. He'd smiled again and kissed her. "It wouldn't really be _you_, I don't think. And you look great just the way you are."

Jean sighed silently now, expecting a similar response from Warren.

"You should do it, definitely," he tried not to sound quite as enthusiastic as he felt about it. "And hell, let them know about it." He couldn't help but grin. "It's who you are, after all. You should really do it."

Jean blinked at him in surprise and found herself grinning back. "You really think so?" She just kept smiling at him, so pleasantly surprised by his reaction. "Ok, I'll do it. But you're coming with me for moral support."

Warren's grin only widened. "I'd love to," he said, immediately, without even thinking it through. "I've always kinda wanted to go into one of those places in the Village... just that when I'm out, it's usually in the suit, not like...," he glanced down at his _way_ dressed-down ensemble for the evening, and his grin turned lopsided, "well, like this."

Jean refrained from telling him just how much she loved the way he looked "like this". The outfit really suited him. While he looked fantastic in a suit, she thought he looked even better in casual wear – especially jeans and a leather jacket that was butter-soft.

"Think it'll hurt?" Warren cocked his head at her, chuckling softly. Not that he wanted to scare her out of it... and not that Jean Grey hadn't faced down the biggest bad guys the world had to offer. He hardly thought a little pain would scare her away. But he couldn't help himself, nevertheless.

Still grinning, Jean shifted slightly on the bench. She swiveled so that she could face Warren better, folding one of her legs across the seat as if she were going to sit Indian-style, pressing her shin against Warren's leg, and leaned forward slightly. She rested her elbow on her knee, her hand coming to rest lightly on Warren's jeans-clad thigh.

Warren knew very well that this was just Jean. The closeness, the flashing in her eyes, it was all because she was excited about the topic, happy to have someone agree to go with her for her "moral support." But god, he loved how intense she looked, smiling like that, touching him so easily.

Now, of course, was not the time to recall the images she'd given him only moments earlier of her with a belly-button ring, obviously. But that certainly didn't stop him from doing it.

"Depends on who you ask," Jean told him, unable to stop smiling. She was so excited about this. It would be a fun little adventure for the two of them. "I've heard from some people that there's hardly any pain at all, and I've talked to a couple of people who actually passed out from the pain. So I guess it just depends on your threshold." She laughed softly. "Considering the abuse I put my body through with Logan's training sessions, this should be a breeze."

It was only then that Jean noticed the books that Warren had started to pull out moments before. She'd almost forgotten the real reason for his visit – he needed help. Sliding even closer to him, she rested one elbow on the table and leaned slightly in front of him to peer at the book covers. She nodded approvingly. "Good resources," Jean told him, turning to meet his eyes. "Ok, so where should we start?"

For a moment, he simply watched her. Watched her eyes. But before it got too awkward, he forced himself into a smile, and said, "Ah, I guess we can start with what it is they're proposing as the basis of the study they'd like us to fund," he started looking for the portfolio on the subject. And leaned into her just a bit, as he did so. "Shouldn't take too long to figure out, with you here, if it's worthwhile or if they're just talking big..."

He wasn't entirely certain how he could be expected to concentrate at the moment. How he could manage not to think about her hand on his thigh, or her leg against his. About Christy and her hopeful words. About the way Jean had smiled at him when he'd offered to go with her to get pierced.

But he wasn't terribly upset about it, either.

X

For two hours Jean and Warren had gone over the benefits of the research Worthington Industries was looking to fund. It hadn't taken long for Jean to successfully help Warren sort out everything with the research. Stem-cell research was an area in which Jean was particularly interested, and was fairly knowledgeable. Anything she didn't know, she powered up her laptop and took advantage of the wonders of wireless Internet access to quickly find the information they needed. When Jean was focused on something she was passionate about, she became single-minded in her work – nothing could distract her from their topic of discussion.

Eventually though, they had all that Warren needed, and they found themselves moving away from scientific discussions to this, that, or another thing, going off on tangents about everything and anything. They laughed a lot, drank more coffee and consumed more baked goods, and thoroughly enjoyed the conversation – and the company.

"Ok, so you're visiting us on Saturday," Jean said as she flipped through her Columbia University day timer. "Are you free Monday? I have class until just after 3:30, so maybe we could head down to the Village afterward, get me skewered, then grab a bite to eat?" She tried to not seem _too_ excited about the prospect of getting her navel pierced. But it was hard to hide. It was something she'd been thinking about doing for a long time, and she was finally going to do it. It was liberating in a way, and she liked that feeling very much.

Warren nodded, hoping he'd managed to curb his enthusiasm for the trip somewhat. He knew he was being a horrible man about it, but... what could he say. He was horrible. And a man. And Jean reminded him of those two facts quite often.

"Yes, to both," he replied, leaning back into the corner of the booth, on his wings. They were feeling less twitchy, really. She relaxed him it seemed, despite the heinous amount of caffeine now charging through his system unchecked. "Monday sounds perfect. I'll be working from home, so if you like I could turn up at school and we could go from there. And we should..."

He'd been about to suggest that they do something on the weekend too, since the whole project he was researching would be closed out, one way or another, by then. Jean being as busy as she was, he'd already figured out that he'd need to book her in advance, really, just to be polite. But he suddenly thought there was... something he should be doing that weekend. Something important, of the "If I Don't Show Up, My Mother Will Kill Me" variety of important.

And then he remembered, and realization dawned in his eyes. "Ohhh, Jeannie," he started to smile, slowly. "You know... there's this gala thing at the Met a week from Friday. The Renoir is going up, and they're turning it into this charity event. All the swanky society goings on, and the like. I don't suppose," he arched an eyebrow at her, thinking of her offer to help him deal with those situations anytime, "you'd be interested in being my date?"

Smiling back at him, Jean nodded, trying not to focus on the way he'd said the word 'date'. She knew he didn't mean it like that, but it made her feel awfully guilty about Scott all of a sudden. Spending a night out with Warren was most definitely not a date, Jean reasoned with herself. It was just two friends, who happen to be a man and a woman, spending time together.

"Any excuse to buy a new dress," Jean joked. "No, in all seriousness, I'd love to go with you. Put in an appearance, make nice for a while, and then sneak out and have some real fun, maybe?" Her smile was mischievous, and she knew it. She just couldn't help it.

She didn't mean it like that. Warren _knew_ that Jean didn't mean it like that. But dear god, what was he supposed to think? She was even grinning like she knew what she'd said. But she really, _really_ didn't mean it in that "let's go back to your place for the real party" kind of way. Really. She didn't. He knew she didn't.

"And yes, it would probably be easiest if you met me on campus Monday. I'll take the train in, so I don't have to worry about my car." Jean stopped and her eyes went wide as she was hit by a sudden realization.

Flipping to the back of her date book she pulled out an already crumpled train schedule, then glanced at her watch before cursing softly under her breath. "I'm sorry, War, but I have to run or I'll miss the last train home," she told him with an apologetic smile as she partially stood and reached across the table for her bag. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I don't suppose you'd be able to drop me at Grand Central...?"

Warren glanced down at his watch, suddenly understanding her panic, and felt his eyes go wide. "Ah, Jean, you won't make it. Anyhow, that's a pain in the ass-- you'll get four hours of sleep if you try and make it back to Bayville tonight. God, I'm sorry," he looked back up at her, suddenly feeling like a complete ass. So selfish of him to take up her time like this. She had so little. "Why don't you stay at my place tonight, and I'll take you to school in the morning? You can get a good eight hours that way, with no trouble. And even have time for breakfast." He shot her a big smile that he hoped was charming enough to convince her that she should, in fact, stay with him. After all... it was the least he could do.

Jean considered his proposal for all of five seconds before sitting back down next to him and smiling her thanks. "That would actually be fantastic, thank you," she told him, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You're a life saver."

And he really was. Jean was starting to wonder what she would do without him to help keep her sane. Between the distraction of his text messages and phone calls, and having a good friend (besides school mates) who lived in the city with whom she could spend time... yes, she was very grateful to have Warren around.

Jean chuckled self-deprecatingly then sighed. "I can't remember the last time I got eight hours of sleep during the week," she admitted. "I think my system may go into shock." Jean cocked her at him, unconsciously imitating Christy's actions earlier, and smiled. "I actually think the best night's sleep I've had in weeks was the other night at your place. Of course, that might have something to do with that fact that I was in an alcohol-induced coma," she grinned somewhat sheepishly, "but I woke up that morning feeling better than I had in a long time. Which rather rules out alcohol as the reason, I guess."

Warren carefully avoided her eyes, still packing up his belongings. Examining each book, pen, and paper as he tucked it away, slowly. Regulating his breathing with extreme control, trying to keep his lungs from bursting. Because god, he felt like they might.

He knew, of course, that she had no idea. But half of him was shouting at him to tell her that she'd slept most of the night in his arms, and the other half wanted to fly away and never come back, due to supreme embarrassment. What a complete, pathetic... loser he was. Pipe dreams about the girl with the perfect life. No matter what her friend said, Jean was just so wonderfully clueless... Thank god.

Looking around the coffee shop, Jean noticed there were only about a half dozen patrons left, that chairs were slowly being put up on tables and the staff had started cleaning up. She leaned back and sipped at the last of her latte. Nectar of the gods, truly, even luke-warm. She closed her eyes and simply enjoyed the sweet, richness of her drink, sighing contently. Opening the eye nearest Warren, she looked over at him with a smirk. "I'll be raiding your closet in the morning, just so you know."

He smiled, some of the tension seeped out of his shoulders, his wings pressed hard against his back. "I'm sure I won't mind-- judging from past experience, meager though it is, you tend to look better in my clothes than me anyhow." He cocked his head at her a little, smile going just slightly crooked as she laughed. "Shall we?"


	11. Interlude 4

_**Interlude 4**_

_Week 2: Wednesday_

"Mmmm. That's _so_ good," Jean moaned, eyes drifting closed in pleasure.

"You like that, hmm?"

"Hmm-hmm."

"More?"

"Hmmm, please," Jean replied, opening her eyes and smiling.

Another voice, deep and male and sounding mildly amused, intruded into the conversation. "Are you two done?"

Two pairs of eyes, emerald green and hazel, turned toward the speaker and crinkled with laughter.

Andrew, Christy and Jean were sitting in the main campus cafeteria having lunch. At a large table off to the side, they were away from the main flow of traffic, and it wasn't _too_ noisy. Jean was eating French fries off Christy's plate, ignoring the bowl of fruit and the half a turkey sandwich (Christy had claimed the other half) sitting in front of her.

"Why don't you just get fries instead of fruit salad?" Andrew continued, clearly perplexed. "You always end up eating half of Christy's anyway."

Jean shrugged sheepishly as she snatched another fry. "It's psychological. If I don't order them, it's like I'm not really eating them. Free calories."

The big dark-haired boy shook his head. "I'll never understand girls."

"Well, that's a given," Christy agreed with a snort of laughter, pointing at him with a fry. "Men can't understand women. Ever. It's a universal invariable."

The rest of their small group of friends finally arrived, plopping themselves and their trays of food down at the table.

"Hey, Jean, was I seeing things or did I see you getting out of a really hot little Porsche this morning?" Brian asked as he pulled up a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, chin resting on his fists, smirking at her.

"A Porsche?" Tara repeated, eyes wide, taking a seat across from Jean and Christy. "Sweet!"

"A Boxter," Brian confirmed with a nod. "Dark blue and very sexy."

"Warren dropped me off this morning," she told them with a nod, trying to make it seem like no big deal. Because really, it wasn't.

Christy raised an eyebrow. "And how did that happen? He pick you up at the train station or something?"

Glancing at the brunette, Jean then looked down at the fruit plate in front of her and plucked a grape off its stem, popping it into her mouth before answering. "I missed my last train home last night, so I crashed at his place."

Christy looked genuinely surprised. "How long did you stay at Starbuck's after I left?"

"We pretty much closed the place," Jean admitted. "But we got a lot accomplished, so it was worth it."

"I'll bet," the brunette muttered under her breath, her lips twitching. The redhead ignored her friend.

After they'd left Starbuck's, Warren and Jean had gone back to Worthington Towers and discovered that they both had a rather pleasant caffeine buzz. So they'd stayed up for another couple of hours as they waited for the caffeine to get out of their systems, talking and watching late-night television before they finally retired to their rooms. Jean had gotten a wonderful night's sleep, crawling out of bed just after 8:00 am. It was the latest she'd slept in on a weekday since the summer, and she was struck by what a huge difference not having to get up for training or her increasingly painful commute would make to her daily routine. Maybe she'd have to admit defeat and look into getting an apartment in the city next semester.

"I can't believe Scott doesn't mind you spending the night at another dude's apartment," Brian laughed. "He's either super stupid, super trusting, or he doesn't give a shit. Maybe a combination of the three?"

"Oh, shut up," Jean muttered, pitching a grape at him. Brian caught it and popped it into his mouth, still grinning.

Tara eyed Jean appraisingly. "What's with today's fashion statement?" she asked, waving her hand in front of Jean, motioning to the outfit. "You're not sweats type, Miss Fashion Plate. It's just plain _weird_ seeing you like that."

Jean sighed. She looked a lot more "college co-ed" today than she usually did. Hair pulled back and high on her head in a ponytail, and completely make-up free, she'd borrowed a hooded sweatshirt that Warren's parents had sent him, one of the few items in his wardrobe that he hadn't altered to accommodate his wings. The sweatshirt was huge on her, and she knew it looked a little silly, but beggars can't be choosers. Besides, Jean rather liked it. It was soft and cozy, and it smelled very, very faintly like his aftershave.

"It's Warren's," Jean replied tiredly. "I didn't have anything else to wear, so I borrowed this."

Jake nodded and came to Jean's rescue. "He seemed pretty cool, by the way. You should have him come out with us again."

Smiling, Jean glanced across the table at him. "Thanks, I think he'd like that."

"Yeah, you should ask Scott to come, too," Tara added. "He and Warren are friends, after all, right? So it could be fun for all of us to go somewhere."

Jean nodded, and stole another French fry from Christy to avoid having to answer. Now there was an interesting thought – Jean having a night out on the town with Scott _and_ Warren. Very interesting indeed.

"Nah," Christy chimed in, "just Warren. I don't like Scott."

Jean looked at her friend in surprise. "You've never even _met_ Scott," she pointed out.

"Exactly," the brunette replied with a nod. "And I _have_ met Warren, and I like him. So just bring him with you, and all will be good."

Jean wondered what, exactly, her friend might mean by that. Was Christy interested in Warren? But if that were the case, Jean would have expected her to stick around a lot longer the night before. No, maybe it was as simple as it appeared – Christy just thought Warren was a nice guy, and wanted him to come out with them as a group from time to time.

As if on cue, Jean's phone began beeping from within her bag. Christy grinned and the redhead shot her a dirty look over the top of her pop can as she took a sip. Pulling the small silver device out of her bag, Jean flipped it open and read the message. She nearly snorted pop out her nose.

_What about a tongue piercing... for me?_

The others at the table exchanged confused looks, but Christy nodded knowingly. "Warren," she explained simply, before taking advantage of her friend's coughing and laughing fit to pluck the phone from her hand. Reading the message, she started laughing as well.

"His texts are even funnier after you've met the guy," Christy admitted to Jean with a grin.

Ignoring her friends as they began talking amongst themselves, Jean began typing back a message.

_Remind me never to drink when reading a message from you. Diet Coke through the nose HURTS. Paybacks, War, paybacks. Hmmm, we're going to a piercing salon soon, aren't we? Be afraid. Be very afraid._

* * *

TheScribe3: Ahhh yes, brotherly joy with the original five shall be incoming! How could we resist making Warren completely paranoid and uncomfortable, after all? -Beaubier

Foenixfyre: So glad that the little situations we throw them into are entertaining, and ring true to your own experiences. Nothing like identifying with the main characters. Some of it, we're familiar with. Some of it, we just can't resist, because they're too cute. But either way, glad you're into it! -Beaubier

Sue Penkivech: You love them!! Well, okay… you don't. But Bobby does! ;)

-Beaubier

Sprocket: Well, for a lot of reasons, this one took forever. It had something to do with a cross-country move and a lot of procrastination. But here it is! -Beaubier

Illmantrim-the-Wanderer: To be honest, I'm not sure Warren/Jean (particularly evoverse) is really anyone's cup of tea. Aside from me. And probably Jen :D –Beaubier (Yes, definitely Jen! – Jen)

3metalclawz: Glad you're liking the story so far! Hopefully these last three installments met with your approval. More fun to come, I promise! – Jen

Reeny: I don't recall you mentioning how awesome we are, so please, feel free! ;P The Institute visit is up next, so I hope you'll enjoy it! – Jen

Purity Black: Glad you're enjoying what you've read so far! – Jen

Lady-Snape7: Oh yes, that lovely, lovely tension! BB and I take so much delight in torturing our babies. Glad you're enjoying it, too! – Jen

Ariadne de la Luna: I'm glad we were able to convert you - I know how dedicated you crazy redshippers can be! Sorry it took so long for us to update, but we hope three parts instead of just one will appease you. – Jen

* * *


	12. Chapter 7

_**Chapter 7**_

Crap.

Warren Worthington III, heir to the Worthington Empire, only son of Katherine and Warren Jr., philanthropist and connoisseur… could only think one word.

Crap.

This was going to burn, and he knew it. It was… difficult for him. Yes, he wanted to do this. He wanted to be an X-Man, to find a way to make it work. Apocalypse had shown him that he _had_ to do this. The Avenging Angel could only do so much. The X-Men could make things _better_.

And Jean. He'd be lying if he said, at this point, that he didn't know. She'd be proud of him for this. Jean, who knew how to do the right thing. Jean, who wouldn't get the hell out of his head.

And Scott. Which was what the "crap" was all about.

Warren closed the door of his TT and took off the jacket, stretching his wings behind him. The freeing sensation of his tense wing muscles being allowed to move again was almost too good to be true, and almost made him forget, for just a second.

But… crap.

He threw his coat back inside the car through the window, and started down the walk. The door opened and his stomach jumped. Please, say it was…

Crap.

Scott Summers stepped out onto the front porch, and waved to him.

Warren put on his best businessman smile, reminded himself that he wasn't a bad guy, because he hadn't done anything wrong, and walked toward his friend.

Today had to be different. Today wasn't about his silly fantasies. Christy may have agreed that there was something there… but there wasn't, in truth. The girl had only been picking up on his attraction for Jean. Which was not worth ruining friendships over. And, temporarily, chances to do a little good in the world.

So he held out his hand to Scott and smiled at him as he stepped up on the porch. "Scott, good to see you."

The other boy took his hand, smiling back. Even his eyes smiled behind his ruby red shades.

There was no reason for him not to smile. Warren wasn't the bad guy. Even if Scott was the good guy.

"You too, Warren. I'm really glad you decided to do this. Jean is downstairs with Wolverine, their training is running late. I know I'm less scenic company, but if you don't mind I'll go ahead and show you the top secret stuff. She'll meet up with us later."

Warren followed him inside, careful not to comment on the "less scenic" observation. Christ. Hadn't he said something similar... something about the view in his apartment, with her there...?

_Jesus. Please don't let it be this hard all day..._ "Danger Room," he managed to smile through his internal monologue, "I'm impressed. That sounds appropriately dramatic."

"The Professor has an interesting sense of humor," Scott was still smiling, this time a bit wryly. "You'll figure that out pretty quickly. I think you've seen all the upstairs stuff, right?"

"Yes," Warren nodded. He was actually fairly surprised as he followed Scott through the foyer toward a door he'd never been through before. Maybe his prayer of only moments ago was about to get answered, because… well, this was getting easy now. In fact… his stomach wasn't bothering him at all. The other boy's instant, friendly enthusiasm for the X-Men was… heartening.

Perhaps it would be okay, after all.

Perhaps.

Putting all thoughts of the other day at the coffee shop (… or seeing her wearing his giant sweatshirt to school… or the box in his nightstand with the emerald charm in it…) out of his head, Warren steeled himself for the tour.

XXX

_Son of a bitch,_ Jean griped silently, dodging a blow from Wolverine as he lunged at her. She dropped to a roll and leapt up, balancing on the balls of her feet.

"Not bad, but yer gettin' slow, Red," Logan chuckled as he continued his attack.

"Well what do you expect?" Jean asked as she evaded another blow. Her breathing was getting more and labored, making the running commentary they'd been carrying on progressively difficult to maintain. "You've had me at this for more than an hour."

She had been less than impressed when Logan had appeared at the end of her workout with Scott, dismissing him and asking Jean to stay. The original plan had been for her to get cleaned up right after the workout so that she was showered and good to go for when Warren arrived. Jean felt horrible that she wasn't going to be ready, and hoped that Scott would take good care of her friend until she could escape.

No, _their_ friend. Warren was just as much Scott's friend as hers, if not more so. Scott had known him much longer, had stayed in touch after their first meeting in New York. Jean reminded herself that she had absolutely no claim on Warren's friendship, and she'd better not forget that.

"Tough," he replied, offering her a wolfish grin. "You've been slackin' with school. You need the extra training."

"Bite me, Logan," the redhead growled, spinning and connecting with a powerful round-house kick to the man's lower back. She grinned triumphantly and shook her head, trying to get her ponytail to fall out of her eyes where it clung to her in damp ropes.

"Nice," Wolverine conceded before turning on her again.

"Thanks," Jean told him, dancing away from him on the sparring mat. "You know, you're making me late. I hate being late."

"An' that'd be my problem how?"

She grunted as she ducked and blocked a quickly-delivered combination of kicks and punches. "Well, that depends," Jean panted as she faked to the right then attacked from the left, her taped fist connecting with the older man's throat. "You've got a choice of Avril Lavigne or Justin Timberlake. Whose song would you rather have implanted in your head for the next month? 'Cause if you don't let me out of here, it's going to be either _Girlfriend_ or _Sexy Back_. Your choice."

"That's playin' dirty, Jeannie," Logan observed as he lunged at her and wrapped his arms around her from behind, his arms like steal bands. "Good girl."

Letting her body go limp, she sagged in Wolverine's arms, gravity helping to pull her down. A well-aimed heel to his instep, her head butting back against his nose, and she was free. "What can I say? You've taught me well."

Jean rolled away and scrambled to her feet just in time to catch his foot in her stomach. Her breath was forced out of her in a rush, and she was suddenly on her stomach, Logan's knee digging into her back as he twisted her arms behind her.

"Gotcha, kid."

_Fuck._ Jean lightly thumped her forehead against the mat in frustration. Goddammit she hated it when Logan consistently kicked her ass in these matches.

Chuckling, Logan released her arms and climbed off her, letting her up. Jean rolled over quickly and got to her feet, rubbing her shoulders to ease the muscles that Wolverine had pulled when restraining her.

"Once more, Red, then you can go."

Glaring at him, Jean took her position on the sparring mat. Wiping the sweat off her face, she pushed her ponytail back out of the way. This had better be over quickly, or she really would be implanting those songs in his mind.

XXX

"She should be in here." Scott led Warren toward the gym, after having given him the full tour of the oh-so-dramatically titled Danger Room.

Warren had to admit things had been really... alright. Yeah, flashes of guilt here and there. But this was just Scott. Scott, leader of the X-Men, recruitment specialist, and all around Nice Guy. Hell, Warren was halfway wondering just why the hell he'd expected things to be so damn difficult in the first place...

When Scott opened the door to the gym, and led him inside.

He took a few steps in. And Jean was in there, indeed, with Wolverine. Long, red ponytail hanging down her back, little pieces of hair that had escaped clinging to her skin, dark with sweat. She wore a pair of small black workout shorts and a matching black sports bra. And tennis shoes.

And that was _it_.

Desperately, Warren tried to remove his eyes from her ass, which was looking even better at the moment than it had in those jeans he'd seen her in not so long ago. God, the way she moved... every curve on her was evident in this little get up... and she was just... so divine...

_Stop looking at her ass, stop looking at her ass, her boyfriend is standing _**_right next to you_**.

Oh shit. He couldn't stop.

"Ah... um," he stuttered, trying desperately to tear his eyes away and finally succeeding with something that honestly did resemble actual physical pain _very_ closely. "So he works everyone out pretty hard?"

Scott looked over at him, smiling. He didn't look nearly as impressed as he should've, but he didn't look like he hadn't noticed the... scenery, either. His grin was a bit stupid.

Warren, for one, was simply glad he hadn't gotten "caught." Now _that_ might've been awkward...

"Definitely. And he takes pleasure in it, believe me."

Warren smiled and gave a short laugh as Scott turned his attention back to the sparring match. Warren followed his gaze almost greedily...

And had to admit... he'd probably take pleasure in it too, from the looks of things.

XXX

The final match had just begun when Jean finally felt it – two familiar presences tingling in her mind. And while she should have been able to take notice of them and continue on as normal, as tired as she was by this point it was enough to distract her. Especially the sudden flash arousal that flared from the spot in the back of her mind where she could detect them.

Well, that was… intriguing.

Taking just a split second to cast a quick, surprised glance in the direction of Scott and Warren, she created enough of a window for Wolverine to make his move. He crouched and expertly swept her feet out from under her, and the next thing Jean knew she was on her back, having hit _hard_, the wind knocked out of her.

_Oh God. Kill me now._

Lying on the mat, eyes closed, legs bent and the knees, feet flat on the floor, Jean stayed there for a moment while she tried to catch her breath... and rid herself of the burning embarrassment of going down so quickly in front of the boys. Oh hell, who was she kidding? In front of _Warren_. Scott had seen her taken out on countless occasions. But this would hardly impress their visitor. And damn but she was angry with herself.

"What happened, Red?" Wolverine demanded, standing over her, straddling her legs.

"I lost focus," she admitted, knowing it was pointless to try to come up with excuses.

He snorted. "No shit." After a few seconds, Jean opened her eyes and met the feral man's piercing gaze, and he extended his arm to help her up. Grasping his hand, and grateful at this point for the assistance, she let Logan pull her to her feet. "Other than fuckin' the dog on that last match, not a bad session," he told her, patting her on the shoulder and motioned toward Scott and Warren with his chin. "Go play with yer friends."

Nodding in acknowledgment of the compliment (and for Logan that was, indeed, a compliment), Jean turned and gave the boys a wave before heading over to the bench along side of the mat to pick up her water bottle and towel. Draping the towel behind her neck, she used one end to dry her face, then took a long drink of water. She was stalling, she knew, and she couldn't put it off any longer.

"Hey," Jean greeted with a smile as she approached Scott and Warren, her breathing still a little bit labored from the workout, body still covered in sweat. She hoped that they would just chalk up her burning cheeks to being flushed from the workout.

"Hey," Warren smiled stupidly. He kept his eyes on hers with an extreme amount of effort. Admittedly, he'd managed to swipe them over her once or twice while she'd been walking their direction...

But damn. It was just _wrong_.

"You look...," good. Shit. Scott. Right. Okay, _now_ things were about to get hard. "Great out there," he finished honestly enough, directing the compliment to her skills rather than her fine ass in that cotton/spandex blend. "Almost makes me excited about the fact that I too could have my ass kicked every day, if only I joined up."

He smiled and thought maybe he should look over at Scott. But he couldn't. Jean was here now.

Jean laughed, pleased by the compliment, but embarrassed by the fact that yes, she _had_ had her ass kicked out there. "Thanks," she told him, then paused to take a drink of water. Her mouth seemed very dry all of a sudden. "You get used to it after a while. You make friends with the mat, get used to seeing it up close and personal – and often – as Logan demonstrates time and time again why you need more training."

She then turned accusatory eyes on Scott. "And _you_. How come you didn't have to stick around for an extra hour of abuse?"

Scott shrugged and grinned first at Jean, then at Warren. "Guess I'm just in better shape," he said smugly, mostly joking. "Logan didn't think I needed it. From that last display, you obviously did."

In spite of how tired she was, Jean demonstrated just how fast she could be by whipping her leg out to the side and kicking Scott on the ass. It was a hard enough blow to make him stumble a few steps as he laughed, but not hard enough to actually hurt him.

"Ok, ok, I'm sorry," Scott said with a laugh as he reached out and tugged gently on her ponytail, earning a scowl from the redhead. "It wasn't fair of Logan to single you out, and I won't let it happen again. And you really did look great out there, especially considering how hard he'd had you working. Happy?"

Jean cocked an eyebrow at him, then looked to Warren for his opinion.

Warren's opinion was delayed, however, by sheer surprise.

Not that he thought it was in the least disrespectful or inappropriate, the way they were behaving. In fact, it was really very sweet, and it was perfectly clear that the two of them were extremely close...

But not in a way that inspired jealousy. In a way that reminded him, very much... of a brother and a sister.

Not that he and Jean didn't mess around like that themselves. He remembered attempting to subdue her redheaded rage on the couch with quite a great deal of fondness, in fact. Particularly the part where it ended with her in his lap.

But that... they had been flirting. Harmlessly, yes, to her. But flirting.

Tugging a girl's ponytail was only flirting if you were nine years old. Warren knew-- he'd done it many, many times as a child.

"I ah...," he stuttered, then smiled, holding out his hands as if in surrender. "I'm not gonna get in the middle of this one. But he definitely sounds sorry to me."

Of course, he meant that in a different way than it sounded. Because... damn. If he had Jean... he would never...

Again, not that it was bad. But... damn. When he'd been talking to Christy about how Scott never seemed like a real boyfriend, or whatever she'd said... he had actually expected that it'd just be a theory. Not something that extended into practice.

Jean rolled her eyes in mock annoyance. "I should have guessed you'd side with him," she complained to Warren, lips twitching into a smile just to let him know she wasn't really upset with him.

Turning to Scott, she swatted his arm lightly. "Be nice or I'll tell Warren just how many times I've dropped you on that thing," Jean told him, motioning back at the mat.

Scott laughed and his hand moved from her pony tail to the back of her neck in spite of the fact that sweat was still trickling down her skin, squeezing gently. "Aw, c'mon, Jean, I've got a reputation to maintain here. You wouldn't want to embarrass me like that, would you?" he jokingly pleaded.

Shrugging Scott off (she _hated_ being touched when she was all sweaty and gross, and he knew it), Jean took a step away from him and closer to Warren. Scott rolled his eyes at her, behind his glasses. "Try me," she told him, smiling sweetly.

"Anyway," Jean turned to Warren, crossing her arms over her chest as she suddenly realized how little she was wearing... and feeling self-conscious in her workout clothes for the first time ever. Although she suspected that was in part due to that spike of intense attraction she'd felt from… well, to be honest, she couldn't be sure who it had been from, short of doing some prying. Which she wouldn't do. She would have assumed it was from Scott, but… well, he'd never reacted that strongly to seeing her working out before. The possibility that it had been Warren's reaction was something she really didn't want to think about.

"Sorry I got tied up down here. I'd wanted to be ready when you got here, but Logan apparently had other plans. Have you been given the grand tour yet?"

"Yeah, actually," Warren answered, smiling down at her, his battle to pay attention having been won for the moment. "Scott did a good job with that," he made himself look over at the other boy now, half relieved, half in pain. "At least, of the downstairs. Most of the upstairs stuff I remember from after Apocalypse."

And then back to Jean. "And no worries about being 'late'. I don't think I'd argue with Logan either," he raised his eyebrows once. And let himself stare. This time at her eyes. Just for a second.

It felt... comfortable. Scott wouldn't think anything of it. After all, they were talking...

Jean held his gaze and smiled back. It was so good to see him. And to see him _here_, of all places. Finally on her own turf, so to speak.

"Logan's not really as scary as he likes people to believe," she told Warren with a wink.

"Well, unless you make him mad," Scott interjected with a chuckle. "Then... yeah, run."

With a laugh, Jean reached out and squeezed Scott's hand briefly. "What are your plans for the next little while?" she asked him.

"I figured I'd show Warren some of the equipment we've got in here," Scott replied, glancing over at Warren to see if the plan sounded ok to him and continuing when he got a nod of agreement, "then head back upstairs and see if anyone else is around."

Jean nodded. "Ok, I'm going to go get cleaned up. I feel gross," she said with a grimace, then smiled over at Warren. "So give me half an hour, and then I'm all yours." To Scott, she said teasingly, "Try not to scare him off with your hard core Fearless Leader routine, ok?"

Jean then took Warren's large hand in hers and squeezed it like she had Scott's, smiling at her friend. "I'm glad you finally made it," she told him. "I'd hug you but...," she glanced down at herself and made a face, "ugh. Sorry."

Warren managed a smile. Somehow. And then he forced himself not to watch her retreat. To follow her boyfriend up the stairs instead.

It wasn't the easiest thing he'd ever done in his life. But he could do it. Really, he could.

XXX

"And you may or may not remember our lovely kitchen," Scott led him into the brightly lit room, waving his hand around with mock-magnanimity. "Feeling hungry?"

Warren smiled. "Yeah, a bit."

Things had been... back to okay. With the notable absence of Jean. Oh-so-notable.

This obsession was so far out of control. Jean had grabbed Scott's hand, after all, before she'd left. That had been really sweet, and girlfriend-like. He was overreacting to the kicking in the ass... and the ponytail pulling... and all the other ridiculously sibling-like interaction he'd just witnessed.

After all, they _had_ sort of grown up together.

That was it. Surely.

... and now he was creeping himself out. Moving on.

"Hey hey, it's Superchicken!"

Warren closed his eyes, and shook his head. He'd know that voice anywhere. The two times he'd met the kid, he'd been nothing but trouble.

Yet... he had to admit, he kind of... liked Bobby Drake anyhow.

"Wings in the hizzy, yo," the boy in question appeared beside him with a mullet-toting blonde boy in tow. "What's up?"

Warren cocked an eyebrow and looked down into brown eyes. "Grand tour."

"Warren's thinking he might be spending more time here," Scott started toward the fridge now. "So no scaring him off."

"Moi?" Bobby looked appalled, and elbowed his accomplice, a boy Warren was pretty sure was called Sam. Cannonball, either way. "I'm _so_ not scary."

"Ya scare me," Cannonball informed him with a crooked grin before following Scott to the fridge.

Bobby ignored him and looked to Warren again. "So, gonna hang out. Be an X-Man. Join the crowd. Be Scott's wing man--"

"Bobby!" Scott's voice came from inside the fridge.

Warren was laughing though. Interesting, anyhow. Even if he had no clue how to respond to this kid...

"The walking snow cone machine would be smart to watch himself," Jean warned, half joking, as she entered the kitchen, showered and clean, and feeling much better than she had 35 minutes ago. Her hair was still a little damp, but she'd dried it as best she could. She'd caught the tail end of that little exchange as she'd approached, rolling her eyes at Bobby's behavior.

"Aw, c'mon, Jeannie," Bobby complained loudly, adopting a face of pure innocence as he turned pleading brown eyes on her. "I wasn't doing anything."

"Sure you weren't." She ruffled his hair as she passed him, and the younger boy moped off, chattering to Sam and Scott now as he added his head to theirs inside the fridge.

Jean shook her head, chuckling slightly as she crossed to where Warren was standing. She stopped close to him, then hopped up onto the counter, sitting close enough that her knee was just brushing his hip.

"So what'd I miss?" she asked, nudging Warren gently with her knee.

Warren very nearly brought his hand up to rest on her thigh. Why that seemed to be an acceptable compulsion, initially, he had no idea, but he was vaguely disturbed by the ease with which he could've executed the action. But she was just barely touching him with her knee... and she was smiling so happily.

She was happy to see him.

The thought sent a rush of adrenaline through his system, made his entire circulatory system speed up just slightly. She really was happy to see him.

Not that she'd seemed so unhappy before, downstairs. But she'd been distracted. Right here, now, it was like there was no one else in the world.

"Other than Scott threatening Bobby," he grinned and leaned on the counter with his hip, turned toward her, tucking his wings up carefully out of the way, "nothing much. Just hanging out. You know. The guys. Doing guy stuff."

His grin became slightly crooked as he said it.

But he was happy to see her too.

Jean raised her eyebrows in amusement, the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried (and failed) to look serious. "Guy stuff, huh," she nodded her head. "Sounds ominous."

Bracing her hands behind her, Jean leaned back slightly, careful not to smack her head against the cupboard. From her perch, she could pretty much meet Warren eye to eye, and she cocked her head at him, curious and teasing. "So what did that entail – belching contests, crushing beer cans on your foreheads, that kind of thing?"

"Everyone ok with roast beef sandwiches?" Scott asked, pulling his head part way out of the fridge and looking back at them with a questioning smile.

Jean pulled her eyes away from Warren's, glancing back at Scott with a smile. "Sounds good to me," she replied, then cocked her head at Warren, inquiringly.

Warren nodded, not really too concerned about what he was going to eat. He'd been hungry before, but now… well he could take it or leave it. He went back to the conversation, quietly enough that not everyone in the room could hear what he said. "I'm great at the beer can thing. See, you've only been around me when I'm drinking wine. There's a whole other side to that, you know…" He was teasing her. Sort of. But she was smiling and he couldn't resist the urge to make her smile… well, more. Hell, maybe he'd even get a laugh.

Jean rolled her eyes, but it was obviously half-hearted and completely for show. She reached out and flicked a lock of blonde hair out of his eyes as a grin suddenly broke through her attempts at mockery. And she laughed, letting her hand come to rest on Warren's shoulder.

"I'm _so_ going to make you crush a beer can against your forehead the next time we get together," she informed him, still laughing.

Warren beamed. There it was! That was exactly the thing he'd wanted, that laugh. Just the sound of it…

"Mayonnaise?"

Jean stopped laughing and looked up at the source of the slightly… curt question. Never before had she heard the name of a condiment sound quite so unpleasant, in fact.

She shrugged. "I'd eat Kitty's cooking right now, so whatever," and hopped off the counter to help her boyfriend arrange the fixings. He always got irritated when people didn't pitch in with every little thing. Excuse her for trying to entertain the guest!

Warren, however, was frozen.

Scott's eyes were on him now, and Warren was fairly sure that even if those ruby shades hadn't been there, they would've been blazing bright red anyhow.

_Smooth, Worthington. Imply that you've been drinking with his girlfriend, sidle up to her incredibly gorgeous legs while she's on the counter and then let her play with your hair and lean on your shoulder. Really, just bloody brilliant. _

_Jackass._

"Oh you did _not _just take the last pudding cup!" Came the explosion from the fridge.

Just like that, Scott was back to Scott—calm, big brother half entertained while wearing that expression that said he knew he shouldn't be. He turned his attention to the fake fight breaking out nearby, where Bobby was… well, slapping at his blonde friend. Sam joined in till it was an all out girl fight over the pudding cup (which was nowhere to be seen at first, but Warren later spotted on the counter).

"Take it outside, or the pudding is mine," Scott announced in his best Calm Fearless Leader voice.

This sent the younger boys running, still faux-slapping and kicking at each other like five year old girls. And left Warren to realize that he hadn't been breathing for the last minute or so. He felt a little faint. You know, because he was a jackass.

"Come and get it," Jean looked over her shoulder at him and smiled brightly, waving him toward the table. She caught his eye and noticed he looked… a little off. She cocked her head at him questioningly. He looked a little pale.

Warren forced a smile out and started toward the table, but he couldn't give her anything else. She hadn't seen it, which was something to be grateful for. Something big, actually. He flicked his gaze back to Scott nervously, but the other boy was back to smiling at him, holding out a loaf of bread.

"Help yourself to Xavier's home cooking," Scott even cracked an almost-joke.

Smile painted painfully onto his face, Warren accepted the bread with what he hoped was an amused-sounding, "thanks." And proceeded to make a sandwich while the other two chattered away like nothing was wrong.

How he could face down a Board of Directors, several hostile investment firm CEOs and single-handedly convince dogged mortgage bond salesmen to leave him the hell alone and come up smelling like roses, he'd never know. But whatever it was, it didn't extend to his own peers.

And even if it had only been a flash he'd seen in Scott's eyes… Warren was left with a sick feeling in his stomach. That feeling that said things would never be the same.

Just because he wanted to make her laugh.

And things had been going so well.

* * *

_**Coming soon (no, really, we meant it!), Chapter 8!**_


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